


Savin' Me

by miss_grey



Category: Supernatural
Genre: ALTERNATE ENDING FROM THE MOVIE, Alternate Universe - High School, Angst, Child Abuse, Drug Use, Foster Care, Ghost Castiel, Haunting, Hurt/Comfort, Invisible AU, M/M, Near Death Experiences, Redemption, Sexual Abuse, extreme violence between Dean & Cas, implied non con, no permanent major character deaths
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-03
Updated: 2014-05-24
Packaged: 2018-01-11 00:25:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 27,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1166399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miss_grey/pseuds/miss_grey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU based off the movie "The Invisible."</p><p>Castiel is the son of a preacher.  Dean is a boy on the edge who has everything to lose.  A misunderstanding between the two of them results in tragedy.  Now Cas is haunting Dean, and as Dean gets to know Cas, he realizes the extent of the damage he's done.  Dean wishes there was a way he could take it all back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Contemplation

**Author's Note:**

> This story is inspired by the film “The Invisible,” though it’s been altered in parts to better suit the characters and my purposes. Fair Warning: This fic is going to be violent, angsty, and heart-wrenching like you wouldn’t believe. Some parts in particular may be difficult to read (if you’ve seen the movie, you can guess some of what I’m talking about). Now, while I don’t promise happy endings, I do promise hopeful ones. Please, give it a shot, and have a little faith ;)
> 
> Anyone who has questions about the warnings or ending of this fic is welcome to message me on my tumblr.  
> http://realhunterswearplaid.tumblr.com/
> 
>  
> 
> Title taken from the Nickelback song "Savin' Me".

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made a mix for this story, in case you're wondering what I listen to while I write this: http://8tracks.com/miss_grey/savin-me

            

 

 

            His watch stood frozen at 11:33. 

            Sirens wailed in the distance, closing in, but it was already too late.  “It’s time to go.”  Tessa held her hand out to him, her dark, fathomless eyes neither sympathetic nor threatening.  He turned his eyes back to the two broken bodies lying twined together on the pavement, pale in the night, blood spreading in a growing puddle around them.  How had it come to this?

            He knelt and brushed his fingers over the phone that still lay, open, though the light had dimmed to black.  A strained voice poured out of it, words jumbled into a heavy cadence, but he could not discern what the voice was saying.  Not that it mattered.  Not anymore.  “Take my hand.”  Tessa prompted.  He cast his eyes back up to the reaper. 

            “What will happen to him?”

            “These events no longer concern you.  It is done.  And your time is up.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

Monday

 

            Dean stalked through the hallway, head down, hands crammed in the pockets of his beat-up leather jacket.  He shoved bodies out of the way with his shoulder when they didn’t make way for him of their own accord.  The bass of Skillet’s _Monster_ provided his personal soundtrack as it pumped into his ears. 

            He’d skipped first period.  He planned on skipping second too. 

            His strut came to a sudden halt when a body appeared directly in his path.  Dean knew who it was without having to look up.  He knew who the faintly scuffed black dress shoes with one frayed lace belonged to.  “Move.”

            The deep rumble of the voice didn’t detract from its inherent innocence.  “You weren’t in first period.”

            Dean finally, slowly, raised his eyes.  Scuffed shoes led to tailored black slacks, up to a white dress shirt, black blazer, crooked blue tie… an expanse of pale, unblemished skin—Dean could see the boy’s pulse in his throat—to bright blue eyes and a disheveled head of dark hair.  He met the boy’s eyes and felt a shiver of satisfaction move through him when the boy gulped.  “Move.”

            “Dean, you’re going to fail—oomph.”  Dean cut him off by pushing him up against the wall, forearm over his throat so that he wouldn’t have to listen to another goddamn word.

            “What have I told you about concerning yourself with my affairs, preacher boy?”  The boy struggled against his hold, shoving ineffectively at Dean’s shoulders.  “I don’t want to see you around anymore, you got that?”  Wide blue eyes bored into his own green ones, full of fear, but also an odd determination.  Finally the boy stopped struggling.  Dean snorted and shoved off of him, turning to leave as the boy crumpled to the floor.

            “I…” He croaked.  Dean stopped, shoulders tensing.  “I care what happens to you.”

            Dean laughed, but didn’t bother looking back at the boy as he tossed over his shoulder, “Don’t waste your fucking time.”  Then he stalked away.

 

 

 

 

            He banged into the men’s room and flipped the lock behind him.  “Hey, brother, bout time you showed up.”  Benny flashed Dean his usual charming smile.  Dean met his eyes briefly before focusing on the other man in the room: his eyes were wild, darting from Dean to the door, and his palms were sweaty if the way he kept rubbing them against his pants was any indication.  Dean reached into his pocket for the baggie he had prepared that morning.  “Take your fucking pills, Gordon.”

            Gordon reached for the baggie, fingers like spiders, snatching it and dumping two pills into his hand before popping them dry.  He tilted his head back and swallowed, shuddering as the medication slid down his throat.  Dean watched him through hooded eyes.  It took a few minutes before Gordon opened his eyes again, but when he did, he was steadier.  A shark grin stretched his mouth.  “Thanks, buddy.”

            “I’m not your friend.  Pay up.”  Dean held his hand out expectantly as Gordon rummaged around in his pocket.  Finally he dropped a crumpled twenty into Dean’s hand.  Dean stared at it blankly before snapping his eyes back up to Gordon’s.  “What the fuck is this?  You owe me fifty, Gordon.”

            Gordon chuckled nervously.  “Hey man, I know, I remember.  Only, that’s all I had on me today.”

            Dean shoved the money in his pocket and in the same move, pulled out the switch blade he’d tucked away.  He only had to flick his eyes briefly to the side before Benny had grabbed Gordon and pulled his arms behind his back, holding him in a vice grip.  Dean flipped the knife open and slid it slowly up Gordon’s chest to rest lightly against the base of his throat.  Gordon gulped, pressing his throat briefly into the blade before he tried to twist away.  Dean watched dispassionately as a bead of red welled in the cut.  Gordon giggled nervously.  “I’ll…”  He twisted again, “I’ll get you the rest of your money!”  He shouted. 

            Dean slapped a hand over his mouth.  “You bet your sorry ass you will.  But now it’s a hundred.”  Gordon’s eyes bugged but Dean only pressed the blade more snugly against his skin.  “What, you think I’m running a fucking honor system here?”  He stomped his booted foot onto Gordon’s and grinned when he heard a crunch.  Gordon whimpered behind his hand.  “You owe me my fucking money.  Am I understood?”

            Gordon whined in the back of his throat but nodded his head.  “Good.”  Dean gave one quick nod and Benny released Gordon—he stumbled slightly before regaining his footing—and then he dashed for the door.  As he was twisting the lock open, Dean stopped him saying “Gordon—tomorrow.”  Gordon gave a weak nod before pulling the door open and dashing out.

 

 

 

 

            Castiel scrambled away from the restroom door, hitching his bag up his shoulder and sprinting around the corner before the door was wrenched open and Gordon Walker stumbled out, eyes wild, fingers desperately trying to straighten his clothes.  Castiel pressed back against the wall, desperate not to be seen.  Gordon marched by him, eyes flicking momentarily to Castiel’s face before he reached the end of the hallway and pushed the doors open, exiting the school.  Only after he’d passed did Castiel allow himself to take a deep, shuddering breath.  He peeked around the corner just in time to see Dean Winchester and Benny Lafitte stride down the hall in the other direction.

            He’d heard the whole confrontation.  After Dean had left him in the hallway, Castiel had pushed himself back to his feet, determined to follow, determined to continue their discussion.  He’d found the door locked—lucky for him.  He hadn’t been able to see what was happening, but he’d heard.  He couldn’t believe it had gotten to this point.

            Castiel wasn’t a very brave boy, nor a very outspoken one.  Generally he kept to himself and focused on his school work.  But he had eyes, and he had ears, and sometimes it was difficult to ignore the people who passed through his days. 

 

 

            He’d first become aware of Dean Winchester one evening while he was walking home through City Park, about four months ago.  He’d been rounding a corner on the tree-lined path when his ears had picked up heavy, stilted breathing, almost as though someone was crying, or being sick.  Castiel had cautiously turned the corner and seen the boy hunched against a poplar, head bowed, arms wrapped around his middle like he was holding himself together.  Castiel had moved forward without conscious thought, reaching for the unknown boy, murmuring “Are you alright?”  The boy’s head had snapped up, reddened green eyes focusing on his own.  Castiel cleared his throat.  “Do you need help?” 

           The boy jerked upright, roughly swiped an arm over his face to erase the tear tracks etched on his cheeks and said gruffly “Fuck off, I’m fine.”  A purple bruise was already swelling his left cheek.

            “You—you’re injured.  Please, let me help you.”  Castiel had taken another step toward the boy, but the boy had snarled at him and retreated further.

            “I said I’m fine!”  He turned to march away but Castiel could see the limp in his gait and didn’t miss the boy’s hand dart back to his side.

            “Please, let me help you!  I can help!”  But the boy never turned around again—he marched out of Castiel’s sight.

 

 

            He’d wondered about that boy, gone home and prayed for him that night.  He hadn’t known who he was at the time. 

            A week or so later he’d seen the boy in the hallway at school in between classes.  He’d asked one of his classmates who the boy was and she’d snorted “Dean Winchester—what a waste of space.” 

            Dean Winchester was a name Castiel knew, was familiar with.  In class, Dean Winchester was conspicuous because of his absence.  Dean Winchester sat next to Castiel in Algebra class—only, he’d never been.  Dean Winchester was an empty seat, an empty name.

            Castiel went home that night and prayed for him again, only this time, he had a name to murmur as he lit the candle in the chapel.

            Slowly, very slowly, Castiel became familiar with Dean Winchester.  The whispers in the halls now had a face—he learned of the petty theft, the alcohol, the fights.  He learned that Dean Winchester was a boy with no home, no parents.  Even his good looks couldn’t redeem him.  The girls said he was a dick, a tease, wouldn’t commit.  Even the girls who got off on the bad-boy thing couldn’t stomach his lack of focus, his unwillingness to give them his time. 

            Castiel began watching Dean. 

            The way he held himself warned others to back off.  His eyes were dark and flat when he bothered to raise them.  But Castiel wasn’t dissuaded.  Often times, his father had told him, it was the people who insisted they didn’t want your help who needed it the most.

            Castiel had tried to talk to Dean on several occasions, but he’d been brushed aside, silenced, threatened.  He’d begged him to come to the church, to seek help with his problems.  Dean spit in his face.  Castiel went home and prayed for him that night.

            He learned a lot about Dean.  Things he was sure the other boy would kill him for.  He wasn’t a project—that was too simple a term, too cold.  But Castiel couldn’t make himself stop.  He never could wipe his first memory of Dean from his mind: hunched, bruised, alone and crying.  Hiding the tears, hiding the pain as soon as Castiel spoke to him.  He was strong; Castiel would give him that, but he was also breaking. 

            Slowly, so slowly, fragments of Dean Winchester fit themselves into Castiel’s life.  He learned where Dean went, who he hung out with, what he did with his time.  He learned Dean’s greatest secret, the one he never spoke about.  Castiel never mentioned it to him—couldn’t—but he knew, and he helped when he could.  He learned of Dean’s sins and he kept a silent vigil for him.

            But now.

            Now things had gone too far.  He was selling drugs in the school.  Willfully harming others.  Castiel could remain silent no more.  He went home.  And he prayed for guidance.


	2. Broken

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for mentions of non-con, child abuse, and violence.

 Tuesday

            _“This is the only thing you’re good for,” Alastair hissed as he tied Dean’s hands behind his back and forced him down to his knees.  “You’re a waste of space, Winchester.  And nobody will miss you when you’re gone.”  Lilith took a lazy drag from her cigarette then ground the cherry ashes into Dean’s back.  “There’s nowhere for you to go.  You’re stuck here.  No one else wants you because you’re trash.” Dean had to force himself to keep his eyes down, to keep his words in check.  “Now, be a good boy, Dean, and little Sammy will never know.”_

            Dean felt dirty and he couldn’t stop his body from shaking as he crawled into his bed in the wee hours of Tuesday morning.  He’d wanted to puke from the moment he entered Alastair and Lilith’s room, but he’d held it down, and tried to zone out. 

            It hadn’t worked. 

            A tumult of rage and disgust warred under Dean’s skin and for a moment, he wished he was dead.

            Every single fucking day Dean cursed the circumstances that led to him and Sam living with Alastair and Lilith.  Child protective services had a flawed system—everyone knew that, everyone said so.  It was like a disclaimer that everyone acknowledged then shrugged off, because no one was quite sure how to fix it.  Sometimes it amazed Dean how easy it was for a kid to drop through the cracks, even when people had the best intentions. 

            It was hard to place siblings together, and usually it didn’t happen.  There weren’t many people willing to take in siblings—sometimes they simply didn’t have the space for it, other times they just didn’t want to have to deal with the added drama. 

            In the beginning, they separated Dean and Sam, but after a couple years of Dean running away to find Sammy and raising hell for his foster families, their case worker realized it would be easier on everyone, herself included, if she found a place for the brothers to be together. 

            Now Dean was 17 and already had a rap sheet of misdemeanors a mile long, studded with counts of assault and petty theft.  Dean had done what he had to in order to get by and take care of Sammy, but the reasons for his actions rarely went into the reports.  As far as the system was concerned, Dean was more trouble than he was worth.  And no one wanted him.  If finding a place for siblings was hard, finding a place for kids with juvy records was worse.   So when a family _was_ willing to take them in, Dean guessed the system wasn’t willing to rock the boat with a whole lot of questions.  That’s how they ended up in their current situation.

            On the outside, the Heyerdahl family looked normal, Dean guessed.  Granted, the apartment was small and shitty, and wasn’t located in the best part of town, but it was clean on the inside and the fridge was fully stocked.  Alastair sold insurance through some telemarketing company and Lilith sold women’s clothes for some high-end retail shop. 

            They were smiling and welcoming when Dean and Sam were first placed with them a little over a year ago.  They’d assured the case worker they’d take real good care of the boys.  And for the first month or so, they had, mostly.  Dean had felt wary of them from the beginning, hadn’t been able to shake the itch under his skin whenever one of them looked his way, but he’d brushed it off as being paranoid after years of being shunted from place to place.  It wasn’t like he had a whole lot of trust in humanity anymore at this point. 

            Sammy was doing well in this town.  He’d already made friends at the school, and he told Dean that for the first time in years, he was able to sleep without all of the nightmares.  He got three square meals a day, vegetables included, and at the time, that was enough for Dean.

            But then… things changed.  It started with looks, and sly little touches that Dean tried to brush off and ignore.  Until he couldn’t.  Dean gulped.  Just thinking of it made him feel like he was gonna hurl.

            It wasn’t just Alastair—Lilith was in on it, too.  Dean never would’ve… never would’ve let them do what they did, except they told him point blank that if he didn’t shut up and do what they wanted, they’d hurt Sammy, too.  They’d do the same thing to him.  And who was gonna believe Dean, even if he told?  He was a troublemaker and he knew that as far as his case worker was concerned, he wasn’t worth the fucking paperwork.

            Dean _was_ sick after that first time they’d gotten their hands on him.  They were sick, did disgusting things to him.  They liked to hurt him, too, but they always made sure to hide the marks in places where no one would look.  They got off on it, on hurting Dean together. 

            He wanted to kill them.  He had fantasies of blowing their brains out while they slept, then taking Sammy and just _running,_ but there was no place for them to go, and that was no life for a kid.  For now, Sammy was safe.  The sick sons of bitches they lived with kept to their word, and they never touched Sam—hardly even looked at him—as long as Dean was a good little boy and did what they told him to.

            Dean couldn’t stand to be touched anymore.  Not by anyone.  He’d tried dating girls from the school, but it didn’t work out.  Sometimes Dean caved and hooked up with someone, but it never went further than a seedy, hurried fuck.  Even then, he felt dirty after.

            Most people didn’t bother questioning it when Dean brushed them off.  He wasn’t worth their time, either.  And he was okay with that, because he really didn’t want someone else getting in his business, fucking up the precarious balance he’d established in his life.  He had ways of dealing with all the shit in his life and he was finding ways to make money, saving up, because one way or another, he and Sammy were getting out of that place.  It was just a matter of biding their time.

            He still remembered being twelve years old and holding onto the shaking form of his 8 year old brother as the cops came to take them away after their father died, remembered promising Sammy that he’d take care of him, that he’d never leave him like Dad did.  And no stranger was going to make him break that promise to his baby brother.

            Dean kept his mouth shut, and life went on.  No one paid him any attention, until recently, and he’d be damned if he was some kid’s salvation project.

            Dean stared up at the ceiling of the bedroom that he shared with Sam, unable to sleep, unwilling to shut his eyes.  He couldn’t keep doing this.  He had to find a way out.  Somehow, something had to give.

 

* * *

 

 

 

            There was very little between the center of town and the Novak household except for an expanse of woods and the Circle K, which is why Castiel chose to stop there on his way home on Tuesday night after choir practice.  He’d been lucky that his father had allowed him to borrow the car tonight—usually Castiel walked home—so to thank his father, Castiel decided to fill up the gas tank.

            Castiel shivered and shoved his hands in his pockets while he waited for the tank to fill.  The warm nights of summer had passed into the chilly nights of approaching autumn.  It was quiet tonight.  Occasionally, a car would drive past on the highway, tail-lights glowing against the darkness.  Castiel was thankful when the handle on the gas pump clicked, signally that the tank was finally full.  When Castiel put the handle back, though, he glanced at the card reader and frowned when he saw an error message flash across the screen, followed closely by “See Attendant.”

            Sighing, Castiel made his way into the brightly lit gas station.  It was empty except for himself and the attendant, who was a hard-looking middle aged guy, who glanced up disinterestedly when Castiel walked in.  “Excuse me,” Castiel said as he approached the counter.  “There was a message on the gas pump saying I should come in because of an error?”

            “Right,” the guy huffed, “We’ve been having trouble with that damn machine all day.  I have to run your card again.”

            “Oh, alright.”  Castiel fished in his wallet for his bank card and handed it over quickly.  He folded his hands on the counter and resigned himself to waiting patiently as the attendant ran the card once more.  “It won’t charge me twice, will it?” 

            “Nope.” 

            Outside, bright headlights shown on the highway as a car pulled into the gas station parking lot.  Soon after, two doors slammed.  The man handed Castiel back his card and a receipt.

            Castiel was turning away from the counter, sliding his card into his wallet, when the doors in front of him burst open and two men wearing ski masks stalked in, guns held firmly in front of them.  The larger of the two pointed his gun at the attendant and shouted “This is a hold up!  Pop that cash register open and give me all the money you got!  Don’t try anything funny or I swear I’ll shoot you!” 

            Castiel stood frozen as the attendant rushed to comply.  Next thing Castiel knew, a gun was pointing in his face and his heart stuttered.  “On the ground.”  A deep, calm voice ordered. 

            Castiel recognized that voice. 

            As Castiel sank to his knees in front of the gunman, he dared a glance at the man’s face.  Even though he was wearing a mask, Castiel recognized the green eyes that shone through.  Castiel gasped.  “Hurry up,” The man hissed.  “Don’t make me shoot you.”  Castiel’s head spun at the realization of who the robber was, but he followed the man’s orders and got on the ground.  “On your belly.”

            Behind the counter, Castiel could hear the attendant emptying the register.  “That’s it?!”  The other man barked. 

            The attendant replied “It’s been a slow night.”

            “Son of a bitch,” the man above Castiel hissed.

            Castiel flinched.  “Please,” his voice cracked.  “Please don’t hurt anyone.”

            “Shut up!”  The green-eyed man barked.  “Hurry up, man!  We gotta get outta here.”

            “Just finishing up, brother.”  A pause, and then, “Alright, let’s go.”

            The gunman above Castiel ordered “Don’t get up ‘til after we’re gone.”  And then he and the other man were out the door and the car was speeding away, wheels screeching.

            Behind the counter, the attendant was already babbling into the phone.

            Castiel pushed himself to a seated position but didn’t bother to get off the floor until the police arrived a few minutes later and they insisted on checking him over.  Then he had to give a statement.

            It wasn’t a lie when Castiel told the officer that he couldn’t see the gunman’s face because he was wearing a mask.

            But that night, when Castiel was finally allowed to go home, and he’d showered and slipped between his sheets, he allowed himself to think it:  He knew, without a doubt, that the gunman who’d threatened him had been Dean Winchester. 


	3. Rage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is the third chapter, and things are getting even more complicated with the boys. I'd love to hear what you all think so far! :)

Wednesday

 

 

            Castiel hitched his backpack higher on his shoulder and kept his head down, biting his lip as he pushed his way through the crush of bodies.  He found Dean at his locker, angrily shoving books around.  The other boy slammed the locker door and narrowed his eyes when he noticed Castiel.  “Dean.” Castiel started, clearing his throat, “We need to talk.”

            Dean snorted and shoved away from Castiel.  “No, we really don’t.”

            Castiel followed closely behind Dean as he stalked through the crowd, other students quickly making way for him.  “Please, Dean, it’s important.” Castiel mumbled.  The other boy ignored him and quickened his pace.  “Dean, I know about last night.”

            Dean halted and his back went ramrod straight.  He turned, face pale and eyes disbelieving—in that moment, Castiel thought he saw fear in Dean’s face—and then the next thing he knew, Dean’s fingers were clamping on his upper arm tight enough to bruise and he was pulling Castiel into the men’s room.  One boy was washing his hands at the sink, but one look from Dean and he hurried out, not bothering to finish.  Dean spun, twisting the lock on the door before he turned back to look at Castiel.  His eyes had grown cold and hard.  He shoved his hands in his pockets.  “What are you talking about, Cas?”

            Castiel took a step away from him and folded his arms protectively over his chest.  “Dean, I saw you last night.  At the gas station.”  Cas bit his lip again.  Inside, his gut was a mess of nerves, and he had to fight to keep himself from shaking.  “I know it was you.”

            Dean’s jaw clenched and he narrowed his eyes.  “Who did you tell?”

            Castiel scuffed his shoe against the floor and tightened his arms.  “I… I didn’t tell anyone.”

            Dean snorted.  “I put a gun in your face, Cas.  Who’d you tell?”

            “I swear, Dean.  I didn’t.  I should have, maybe.  But I didn’t.”

            Dean frowned, eyeing Castiel disbelievingly.  “So, what?  You’re going to blackmail me then?  What do you want?”

            Now it was Castiel’s turn to frown.  “What?  No!”  He protested, taking a step toward Dean, despite his nervousness.  “I wouldn’t… I’m not like that.” 

            Dean laughed at him, but it was a scary sound, devoid of anything innocent.  “Everyone wants something, Cas.  What makes you any fucking different?”

            “I can help you, Dean.  I _want_ to help you.”

            “There _is no_ helping me.”

            “Please, Dean, I know why you did it, and—“ Castiel’s words were cut off abruptly when Dean leapt forward and slammed Castiel into the wall, hard.  He grasped Castiel’s arms and shook him, cracking his head against the white-tiled wall.

            “You don’t know anything about me,” Dean hissed in his face.  “Nothing.”

            “There are people who can help you,” Castiel gasped, eyes watering against the pain in the back of his head.  “If you only told the police….”

            Dean raised a hand to rest around Castiel’s throat, with just enough pressure to warn.  “Shut up.”  Dean growled.  “I don’t give a fuck what you think, do you hear me?  You keep your mouth shut or I _will_ hurt you.”  Dean shoved off of Castiel and stormed out of the bathroom, slamming the door behind him.

            Castiel watched Dean go, his stomach twisting uneasily and his eyes watering.  He had to fight to catch his breath for a moment.  How could he help someone who didn’t want to be helped?

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

            Dean was in auto shop, his hands buried in the engine of a Chevy Corsica junker when his phone vibrated.  He wiped his grease-stained hands on his jeans before he shot a covert look toward where his teacher, Bobby Singer, was busy instructing one of the new students.  He flipped his phone open and found a message from Benny, reading “ _Cops here.”_

            Dean shoved his phone back into his pocket, cleared his throat, and made his way over to Mr. Singer.  “Hey, teach,” Dean called as he approached.

            Bobby raised his eyes to shoot Dean a questioning look.  “What’s up, Winchester?”

            “I need to take a piss.  So uh… can I go?”

            Bobby rolled his eyes.  “Yeah, whatever.  Just make sure you hurry back.  I expect you to finish that filter change before class is over.”

            Dean gave a short nod and then booked it out of there.  Of course, once Dean hit the main hallway, he didn’t head toward the restrooms.  He took the opposite turn and made his way toward a set of side doors.  No way was he sticking around.  Dean had more important shit to do, and that meant getting the hell out of Dodge.

 

 

 

* * *

 

            Dean had time to brood on the long walk back to the apartment, and by the time he reached the run-down shithole, he’d worked himself into a rage. 

            When Dean’s phone rang, he recognized Benny’s number and he thumbed it on and barked “What happened?”

            Benny’s usually lazy drawl was hushed.  “Brother, they were looking for you.  They went to your shop class.”

            Dean snorted.  “Yeah, well, I hightailed it outta there as soon as you texted me.”

            “That’s good, Dean.  But they’ll probably send someone over to your place later to find you.”

            Dean grimaced.  “Got it.  I’ll make myself scarce.”  He glared up at the five story apartment complex and clenched his fists.

            Benny cleared his throat.  “Someone narced on you, brother.  Any idea who it coulda been?”

            Cas’s face flashed through his mind and Dean gritted his teeth.  “I’ve got an idea who it was.  Meet me in our usual spot.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

            Dean was in their shared bedroom, cramming things into a backpack as quietly as he could, when Sam got home.  Dean almost jumped when his brother cleared his throat and he turned to find Sam watching him with his arms crossed and a brow quirked.  “Dean… what are you doing?  You’re not even supposed to be home yet.”

            Sammy was only 13, but he was tall for his age.  Already, he almost reached Dean’s shoulder, but despite his height and his penchant for using too-big words, he was still a kid.  His face hadn’t even really begun to mature yet—it still held the ghost of baby fat and childhood, and even through everything—the deaths of their parents, witnessing violence and drugs and sex, enduring years in the system—Sammy had still retained his air of innocence.

            Dean managed to summon a smile for his brother.  “Hey, Sammy.  Yeah, I know—don’t tell Alastair or the bitch, alright?”

            Sam nodded.  “You know I won’t.  But what are you doing?”

            “I, uh… I just have some business I gotta take care of.  Don’t you worry about it, though, alright?”

            Sam twined his fingers together and bit his lip.  “You’re not in trouble, are you?”

            Dean tried to force another smile for his brother’s benefit, but it was wobbly at best, and Sam could already see the lie coming.  So Dean heaved a sigh, dropped his bag for a minute, and walked up to his brother so that he could look Sam in the eyes.  He grasped Sam firmly by the shoulders.  “Look, Sammy…someone told a lie about me to try to get me in trouble.  And it worked, I guess.  So now I gotta go take care of it.”

            Sam’s eyes widened and he gripped Dean’s arms as well.  “Why, Dean?  Can’t we just tell someone about it?  If it was a mistake, they’ll fix it, right?”

            Dean pulled back to pet a hand over his brother’s hair.  “Who are we gonna tell, Sammy?  Who’d listen to us?”  Dean shook his head sadly.  “Listen to me, Sam.  We’re all each other’s got, okay?  I promised you when Dad died that I’d do whatever it took to take care of you, and I meant it.  I’ll do _whatever it takes._ ”  He pulled his brother in for a tight hug, and only the warm feel of Sam’s arms returning the embrace had the power to keep Dean grounded.  “Now, I gotta go, but I’ll be back as soon as I can, I promise.”

            Dean was loathe to leave Sam alone in that place, but what other choice did he have?  He knew the cops were going to be looking for him, and the last thing he was gonna do was make it easy for them.  Sammy would be okay for now—Dean had to let himself believe that. 

           

 

* * *

 

 

            Dean met Benny in the alleyway between the 7-Eleven and the Laundromat, but was surprised to find Gordon with him.  Benny leaned calmly against one of the scummy brick walls, hands shoved in his pockets, hat tilted down to shade his eyes.  Gordon was busy pacing back and forth, scratching at his arms and talking to himself under his breath.  He looked up, eyes wide, when Dean stepped into the alley.      

            Dean’s whole body was coiled tight, ready for a fight, but he forced himself to remain calm.  He glared at Gordon.  “What are you doing here?”

            Gordon stopped pacing and took one step back from Dean.  “Look man, I know you’re pissed.  I heard what happened today.  But look, I brought your money.”  He dug into his pocket and fished out a handful of crumpled twenties.  Dean took them without counting and shoved them in his own pocket, never taking his eyes off the other man.

            Something occurred to Dean all of a sudden, and he narrowed his eyes, asking “Did you call the cops on me, Gordon?”  Dean’s voice was calm, and maybe that’s what scared Gordon, or maybe it was Benny at his back.  But he took another step away from them, shaking his head.

            “No way, Winchester.  Wasn’t me.  I’m a junkie, but I’m not fucking dumb.  Look, if it was me, would I have paid you?  Huh?”  Dean tilted his head to the side and flicked his glance over Gordon’s shoulder, where Benny was shrugging.  “If it was me, would I have come out here with you?”

            Benny leaned away from the wall, still the picture of perfect calm.  “He’s got a point, brother.”

            Gordon’s eyes widened and he snapped his fingers.  “I bet you it was that preacher boy.  What’s his name?”  Gordon glanced between the two of them, his eye twitching nervously.  “Come on, Winchester, you know the one!  The kid who keeps following you!”

            Dean narrowed his eyes, because he was already sure he knew who it was.  But it was strange that Gordon would jump to that assumption without even knowing about the conversation Dean had had just that morning.  “Castiel Novak.”  Dean said, his name ringing in the alley “What makes you think it was him?”

            “Saw him outside the bathroom yesterday when I left.  I think he heard us.”

            Dean turned and smashed his fist against the brick wall.  “Son of a bitch,” he hissed.  The pain helped, but it wasn’t enough.  Cas had betrayed Dean and ratted him out, that self-righteous son of a bitch.  Cops were going to be looking for Dean now, they were probably already on the phone with his case worker.  Everything was going to fall apart, he might even be forced to run, and he was so damn close… “Where can we find him?” 

            Castiel was going to pay for this.

* * *

 

Sam was busy working on his algebra homework when there was a knock on the door.  Alastair rolled his eyes and huffed, muting the television before he plastered a smile on his face and peeked through the peep hole in the door.  A moment later, he pulled the door open, a concerned frown on his face.  “Good evening, officer.  How can I help you?”

            Sam could hear a deep voice greet, “Hello Mr…. Heyerdahl, is it?  I’m officer Henriksen and I’m looking for Dean Winchester.  His records show he’s one of the foster children under your care.”

            Alastair gave a short nod.  “Yes, he is.  But he hasn’t been home yet today.  Has something happened?  Is he alright?”  His voice sounded even faker than usual.

            “Would you mind if I come in for a moment?  I’d rather not have this conversation in the hallway.”

            Alastair smiled.  “Of course officer, come in.”  He stepped back from the door and a tall, black man, probably in his mid-thirties stepped in.  The officer cast a glance around the apartment, his eyes lingering on Sam for a moment, before moving on.  Sam quickly looked down at his paper and forced himself to start moving his pencil again.  “What is the trouble?”

            Sam could feel the officer’s heavy gaze on the back of his neck again, but he astutely ignored it.  “We received an anonymous phone call this morning claiming that Dean Winchester was involved with a robbery that occurred last night.  We’d like to bring him in for questioning.”

            Sam could hear the shock in Alastair’s voice when he said “Oh my… that’s terrible.”  Out of the corner of his eye, Sam could see Alastair shake his head.  He lowered his voice.  “I can’t say that I’m surprised, though.  That boy has always been trouble.”

            Sam wrapped his fist tighter around his pencil and had to grit his teeth together to keep from shouting at Alastair in Dean’s defense.  Dean had always told him never to anger Alastair or Lilith, though.  He’d made Sam promise.  Thankfully, the officer cleared his throat and said “Mr. Winchester is only 17.”

            Alastair’s voice was sickly-sweet when he sighed and said “Well, some of the worst start early.”

* * *

Dean and Benny were already waiting in Benny’s red Firebird when Gordon sprinted away from the school to join them.  Dean leaned forward and allowed Gordon to climb into the backseat where he struggled to catch his breath for a minute.

            “Well?”  Dean prompted.

            “I talked to Novak’s friend, Andy.  Kid says that on Wednesday nights, the preacher’s boy volunteers at the soup kitchen, then walks home after.”

            Dean clenched his jaw.  “His friend just volunteered this info?”

            Gordon snorted.  “I’m not dumb.  I told him I had some questions about the church.  Then he was happy to help.”

            “Right.”  Dean glanced over at Benny and nodded.  “Let’s go talk to him.”


	4. Death

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: For graphic violence between Dean & Cas. May be triggering. Just a heads up: I cried writing this. 
> 
>  
> 
> On a better note, I created a mix to go with this story. Give it a shot: http://8tracks.com/miss_grey/savin-me

Wednesday

 

 

            Castiel waved goodbye to the other volunteers at the kitchen before he pushed his way out the door.  A chill wind whipped around him as soon as he stepped outside, so he pulled his favorite, slightly baggy trench coat tightly around himself.  He had a long walk ahead of him, but he didn’t mind.  His father was going to be at the church late tonight for a special service, and anyway, the night was cold and clear, and it wasn’t bad for walking.

            Castiel shoved his hands in his pockets, hunched his shoulders against the chill, and began the long trek home. 

            The hours he’d spent at the soup kitchen had helped to clear his mind and provide him with a sort of balance, at least for a little while.  Castiel enjoyed his volunteer work at the kitchen—it made him feel good to know that he could help provide people in need with a warm meal, especially on a night like tonight.  But it wasn’t enough.  Now that Castiel had no distractions, his belly was churning with anxiety again, and he couldn’t seem to get his mind to calm.  Everything seemed so complicated lately, and it was hard for Castiel to know what was right anymore.

 

 

 

 

            Castiel was a couple miles out on the highway when the calm darkness of the night was shattered by the roar of an engine and the flash of headlights approaching.  Castiel moved closer to the edge of the road and glanced over his shoulder when the vehicle drew nearer.  He squinted his eyes when it began to slow.  A jolt of fear went through Castiel when the car pulled up just behind him, wheels crunching in the gravel at the side of the road, headlights blinding him.  He raised his hand to shield his eyes and called “Hello?  Who’s there?”

            One of the doors squeaked open and Castiel could see a shadow step out.  Castiel’s heart was beating a mile a minute, but he forced himself to remain calm.  Finally, the shadow stepped in front of the headlights.  “Castiel.  We need to talk.”

            Castiel gulped.  “D-Dean?”

            “Yeah.”

            Castiel squinted against the lights.  “You uh… you scared me.”

            Dean was silent for a moment, presumably regarding Castiel from the shadows.  Castiel twisted his hands in the sleeves of his coat.  Dean approached slowly, until Castiel could see his face, though his eyes were still shadowed.  “Cas.  Did you turn me in?”

            Castiel’s eyes widened and he gulped.  Next thing he knew, two other dark figures emerged from the car.  Castiel flashed Dean a panicked look and took a step back.  Dean wouldn’t hurt him, would he?  Castiel’s breath hitched with another wave of fear.

            Dean’s voice was low, emotionless, when he said “Answer the question, Cas.”

            Castiel’s lip wobbled.  “Dean.”

            “Answer me.”

            Castiel gave a short nod.  “I… yes, I did.”

            “Son of a bitch!”  Dean exploded, lunging for Cas.  He grabbed him by his lapels and shook him. 

            Castiel put his hands up to defend himself against Dean’s anger.  “P-please, Dean, I thought it was the right thing to do.  I thought it would _help_ you!”

            “How the fuck would it help me?”  Dean growled, pushing his face close to Cas’s.  “Tell me, HOW THE FUCK WOULD IT HELP ME?!”  He shook Castiel then shoved him away.  Castiel tripped over his own feet and fell.  “You ruined everything!  I had a plan,” Dean roared, advancing on Castiel, “I was dealing with it.  I was so fucking close.”  He grabbed Castiel by the coat and hauled him to his feet again.  “And you ruined my fucking life!”

            Tears fell from Castiel’s eyes now, and his voice was wobbly when he said “I needed to do s-something, Dean.  I know what they—what they do…to you.  And I know you need help.”

            “You don’t know anything about me, Castiel.  If you did, you sure as fuck wouldn’t have narced on me.”

            Castiel gulped again.  “I know about Sam.”

            Dean’s eyes widened and he reared back and punched Castiel in the face.  Castiel reeled back, tasting blood, head ringing, and he fought to loose himself from Dean’s grasp.  “Don’t you say his name.”  Dean hissed, raising his fist again.  “Don’t you ever fucking say his name!”  The second hit caught Castiel in the side of the head, and the pain made him double over. 

            Dean’s fingers were twisted in his coat, holding him tight.  He was trapped.  He had to get away.  He twisted away from Dean and was forced to slide his arms from his coat to do it.  He shrugged the material off and bolted.  Dean grabbed for him, but missed.  Castiel turned and darted into the woods that lined the highway, gasping for breath, head pounding.  Behind him, he could hear labored breathing, heavy footfalls, and Dean’s enraged voice screaming “Get back here, you son of a bitch!  _GET BACK HERE!_ ” 

            Castiel offered up a panicked prayer and ran.

 

 

 

 

 

Dean pumped his legs faster, leaping over downed logs and shoving branches out of his way.  He could hear the labored breathing of the boy in front of him, desperate to get away.  Close.  Dean bowled into him, knocking them both off their feet and they hit the ground hard.  Castiel gave a sharp cry as his shoulder collided with the earth and Dean flipped him over roughly, straddling him and pinning him down. 

               Castiel’s face was pale, eyes wide, cheeks smeared with dirt.  “Please don’t, no, Dean…” He babbled but Dean drew back a fist and let it fly.  Castiel’s cheekbone was hard and sharp against his knuckles but the bolt of pain that shot up Dean’s arm was satisfying.  Castiel groaned and tried to push Dean off of him, but Dean was stronger than him. 

               His world narrowed down to a fine point, the edges of his vision graying and going black until all he could see was the face of the boy who had betrayed him, the boy who _never shut up,_ who was always preaching, who thought he was better than Dean, who had called the police and _fucked up_ Dean’s chances of saving enough money to get Sammy out of that hell hole.  _Sam_.  The son of a bitch knew about Sam!

               Dean hit…again…and again.  Castiel’s hands grappled at his wrists, futilely trying to hold the blows back, but Dean knocked them out of the way.  The feel of flesh giving way under his hands fed the fire in his belly and he couldn’t stop.  Didn’t want to.  Finally.  _Finally_ someone was going to pay for all the pain, for all the shit that Dean put up with.  And this whining, goody two-shoes _bitch_ was going to feel what it was like to hurt.  He would never rat on Dean again.  Would never dare to approach him in the halls.  Would _never_ fuck with him and Sammy again.  “P-please…”  The voice was wet, gurgling.  “Shut up.”  Dean hissed and hit him again _.  Never. Again._  

 

 

 

            “Dean!  Dean!”  He finally became aware that hands were grabbing at his shoulders, pulling at him.  He fought against them, but when someone smacked him in the face he finally realized that the boy underneath him was no longer struggling, had gone limp under his hands,and it was Benny who was trying to pull him away.  “Dean, snap out of it man!” 

             Dean’s vision cleared just as Benny shoved him aside and dropped to his knees next to the broken body of the boy.  He hovered a hand over his face before he shoved fingers roughly under the boy’s jaw to feel for a pulse.  Benny gave a slight shake of his head and Dean felt his lungs heave with a shuddering breath.  “He’s dead.”  Benny whispered.  “Brother, you killed him.” 

             Dean’s head filled with white noise as he looked down at the body of Castiel Novak, small and covered in blood.  And…how long had Dean been hitting him for?  How long ago had he tackled him to the forest floor?  How many times had Castiel begged him to stop? 

             Gordon stepped forward and kicked Castiel in the stomach, hissing “Good riddance to the fucking narc.”  Benny shoved Gordon and stood over the body.  “None of that.  Dean’s done enough already.”  The voices faded out as they argued and Dean focused down on the body again.  He… he hadn’t meant it to happen like this… what…. “Hey, hey brother, are you listening to me?  We have to hide the body and get out of here.” 

             Dean was vaguely aware of lifting arms and heaving the body up.  Tripping through the woods.  The murmuring of Benny and Gordon.   Somehow Dean made it back to the car.  He saw the discarded trench coat and numbly picked it up, crumpling it in his hands.  Couldn’t leave it there.  He shoved it in his backpack without really looking at it.   And then they were speeding back towards the city. 

             Dean looked down and finally noticed the red gouges on his forearms and the streaks of mud around his wrists.  He didn’t even have time to warn Benny.  He bent over and heaved.


	5. Purgatory

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're still reading this, dear readers: First, thank you for sticking with me! Second, congrats on getting through the last chapter. Enjoy, and let me know what you think (I'm sort of proud of this chapter :)

Thursday

 

 

            Benny was silent during the drive, his fingers clenched around the steering wheel, eyes focused resolutely on the road.  Dean stared stonily forward, not really seeing, the flashing street lights a blur.  He felt numb. 

            In the back seat, Gordon was panicking, saying over and over, “You killed him.  You killed him.”

            Finally, it was too much—enough to snap Dean out of his trance.  Another wave of fury washed through him.  He turned to face Gordon and snarled “Yeah, I did.  And you helped, so you’d better keep your fucking mouth shut!”

            Gordon’s mouth snapped shut, his eyes widening.  And then he croaked “I… I didn’t.”

            “You did.  You kicked the kid.  And then you helped to hide his body.  He’s got your fingerprints on him now, too.  Try explaining that to the cops.”

            Gordon licked his lips, and still staring at Dean, said “I won’t tell anyone.”

            “Good.”  Dean turned back around.  “Benny, let him out here.  I’m tired of listening to him.”

            A moment later, they pulled over to the side of the road and Gordon clambered from the car, looking shaken.  Dean slammed the door shut and Benny floored it, abandoning Gordon underneath a guttering street light.

            They continued to drive in silence for a while, apparently with no destination in mind.  Dean vaguely realized the radio wasn’t even on.  Finally, Benny cleared his throat and asked “Where do you want me to take you?”

            Dean shook his head and glanced out the side window.  “Doesn’t matter.  I can’t go back to my place.  Cops are probably still looking for me.”

            Benny nodded.  “There’s a gun in the glove compartment.  Take it.”  Dean popped the compartment open numbly and retrieved the gun.  It was the same one he’d used to hold up the gas station just the night before.  God, that night seemed so long ago now….  Dean shoved the gun in his bag and sat back in the seat again.  “I wish I could help you more, brother, but, uh….”

            Dean waved Benny off.  “It’s alright, man.  I get it.”

            Benny nodded.  “You still have your half of the money?”

            “Yeah.  It’s safe.”

            “Good.”  They drove a bit more in silence until finally Benny pulled up to the curb a couple blocks away from their original meeting place—a place that was notoriously free of cops.  Dean popped the door open and stood, his whole body aching as he crawled from the car and slung his bag over his shoulder.  Benny leaned across the seat so that he could see Dean’s face.  “Take care of yourself, brother.”

            Dean shrugged.  “I’ll be fine.”

            Benny frowned at him through the gloom.  “I might not be real religious but…. Brother, I just watched you kill the preacher’s boy.  There ain’t no coming back from something like that.”

            Dean stared back at Benny, his gut twisting again.  “There is no God, Benny.  And Cas…that boy.  He got what was coming to him.”

            “Do you really believe that?”

            Dean narrowed his eyes and jutted his chin defiantly.  “I do.”

            Benny’s voice was quieter now, almost sad.  “Then brother, there is something broken in you.” 

            Dean clenched his teeth and slammed the door, turning away as he did so.  Benny drove away without another word.

 

* * *

 

 

            Thankfully, the roads were empty and quiet.  It was a bit of a walk to the high school, but Dean covered the distance in a sort of trance, and barely even noticed where he was going.  The parking lot was abandoned when he reached the school and made his way to the building that housed the gym. 

            It was easy to break in.  Dean knew from experience that one of the windows didn’t lock properly, and all it took to open it was a bit of jimmying with his knife.  This wasn’t the first time Dean had had to stay here.

            The building was dark with the exception of the emergency lights, but Dean knew his way around well enough.  He veered off toward the locker rooms as soon as he’d crawled through the window, lugging his backpack with him.  He locked the door behind him and flipped the lights on.  It was too bright.

            Dean dropped his bag in front of the sinks and finally glanced in the mirror.  His face was pale under flecks of brown and red.  Dean’s stomach dropped when he realized what the spots were and he leaned over the sink, heaving and gasping again, though there was nothing left in his belly.  Dean’s hands were shaking when he turned the faucets on, and shoved his hands under the gush of hot water.  He frantically tried to wash away the mud and blood that coated his hands, but it was everywhere—under his nails and up his arms.  It colored the flow of water, flecks of it marring the white porcelain of the sink.  Dean scrubbed so hard he winced.  As the dirt washed away, he became aware that his knuckles were split and bleeding, and that he had scratches all over his wrists and forearms—some of them long and deep, others just the crescent impressions of finger nails.  It was too much.

            Dean snapped the water off and shoved away from the sink, panting.  He glanced up at himself again and realized he was shaking.  His clothes were all stained too, streaks of brown over his shirt and jeans.  Dean turned his back on his reflection and began to strip.

            He peeled his clothes off and let them pool on the white tiles of the locker room floor.  His skin was covered in goosebumps and he was still shaking, so he spun the shower knobs all the way to hot and didn’t step under the stream of water until it was steaming.

            The water burned, but Dean needed it that way.  It was the only thing he could think to stop the shaking and wash the blood away.  He closed his eyes, then wished he hadn’t. 

            Images flashed behind his eyelids: Sammy smiling at him, Sammy crying.  Alastair grinning in the dim light of his bedroom.  The faceless crowds of the high school.  Dean slamming a fist into the mirror at his last foster home. 

            Dean had to brace his hands on the shower wall to keep himself standing as the images flashed faster, inundating his mind: Big, innocent blue eyes.  A timid smile.  Scuffed dress shoes with one frayed lace.  Messy dark hair.  Too-big clothes.  A deep voice calling his name.  Cas’s face flashed in his mind—the fear in his eyes when Dean had pointed a gun in his face and told him to get on the floor.  The earnest way he’d cornered Dean and begged him to seek help.  The panic when Dean hit him.  The fear and pain and anguish when Dean knocked him down and… and…. His fingers grappling for purchase, his wrecked voice begging Dean to stop while Dean… killed him.

            Dean tipped his head forward and gasped.  The hot water mixed with his tears and washed them away, but the pounding pressure of the shower couldn’t drown out the echoes of Dean’s sobs.  They tore out of him, wracking his body enough that he almost couldn’t keep his feet under him. 

            Benny was right.  There was no going back after something like this.  How could he?  The police were already looking for him because of the robbery, so he couldn’t go back to Alastair’s.  He had no doubt that son of a bitch would turn him in the first chance he got.  And now?  Well, probably no one but Sammy would miss Dean.  But Cas—someone was going to miss him.  Probably soon, too. 

            Cas hadn’t ruined Dean’s life—he’d only helped Dean along his own fucked up downward spiral.  Dean had been headed that way for a while now.  But he’d taken Cas with him.  The kid was a self-righteous little prick, but… but…. Dean saw his eyes again, the abrupt shift from trusting to frightened, and it ripped another sob from his chest. 

            He hadn’t meant to kill him.

 

 

 

 

 

            Dean felt carved out, empty now.  He pulled on clean clothes and stared down numbly at the pile of dirty clothes at his feet.  He’d have to get rid of them.  Dean pulled the gun out of his bag and shoved it in his jeans at the small of his back.  He had to be careful now.

            Dean climbed the ladder to the crawlspace attic above the gym, where he’d dragged a spare mat about five months ago after a particularly bad night with Alastair and Lilith.  Tucked in the corner, behind a rack that had years of dust layering it, was the bag containing Dean’s portion of the money.  He retrieved it now and shoved it in his backpack.  When he opened his bag, though, he paused, his breath catching.  Cas’s beige trench coat was crumpled at the bottom.  Dean knew he should get rid of it too, stash it or burn it, but….  Dean shoved the money in on top of it and tossed the bag away. 

            Only after he curled up on the mat did he pull his phone out.  It was 3:30 am.  He’d have to wake up soon and get the hell out of there before the early-riser PE teacher showed up.  Hell, that was if Dean could manage to get to sleep at all.

            Despite his shock and inner turmoil, Dean’s eyes slipped closed within minutes.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

            Castiel’s eyes flickered open.  The first thing he saw were the jagged shadows of tree branches against the light of the moon.  He turned his head and his vision was obscured by tall grasses and the jutting roots of trees.  Close by, Castiel could hear the rushing water of a stream or river.  For a moment, Castiel didn’t know where he was, couldn’t recall how he’d gotten there.  He frowned, searching his memory.

            Then it came surging back: Headlights, yelling, running, pain—Dean.

            Castiel shoved himself to his feet, gasping, and he stumbled.  Oh god… what had happened?  He ran his hands over his body, but he didn’t hurt.  How could that be?  His last memory had been of Dean hitting him.  Had he passed out from the trauma?  Had Dean and his friends left Castiel lying alone in the woods?

            Castiel shivered, regretful of having thrown his coat away, and wrapped his arms around himself.  He glanced around him—he didn’t recognize this place, but he hadn’t run far, before—surely the highway was close by?

            Castiel picked a direction and started walking. 

            He was picking his way through the trees when he stopped suddenly, all of the hairs on the back of his neck rising, like he was being watched.  He spun around and sure enough, through the trees, Castiel could see a dark figure slowly approaching.  His heart jumped and he scrambled forward faster.  Maybe it was one of the boys, come back to finish the job? 

            When Castiel broke free of the trees and hit the highway, he ran as fast as he could toward his house, refusing to look back.

* * *

            Castiel wasn’t sure how long it took him to get home, but when he pushed through the door, the low murmur of his father’s voice drew him in to the kitchen.

            Castiel’s father, Michael, sat at the kitchen table with his head bowed, his phone to his ear, and a half-full mug of coffee at his elbow.  “I understand,” Michael said, voice rough and exhausted.  “Yes, but this isn’t like him.  Yes, he’s only seventeen.”  Michael sat back, eyes closed, and took a deep, steadying breath.  “He didn’t come home last night.”

            Castiel frowned and reached for his father, desperate to reassure him, but Michael stood suddenly and moved out of his reach.  “Father,” Castiel called.

            “The last time I saw him was yesterday morning before school.  But he volunteers at the soup kitchen on Wednesday nights.  I called the supervisor already and he says Castiel left at his normal time last night.  Nine o’clock, yes.”

            “Father!”  Castiel shouted.  Michael ignored him and began to pace.

            “Please, anything you can do to help.  I’m… afraid… something bad happened to him.”  Michael closed his eyes and nodded.  “Yes, thank you.  I’ll be here.”  With that, Michael snapped his phone shut and leaned against the wall, breathing deeply.

            Castiel was stunned, and could only watch as his father sank to his knees in the middle of the kitchen, bowing his head and clasping his hands in front of him.  “Please, Lord, let Castiel be okay.  Please… bring my boy back to me.”

            Castiel felt tears welling in his eyes, and he took the couple halting steps it took to reach his father.  He knelt down in front of his father.  “Father,” Castiel pleaded, his voice wobbly.  He reached a hand out to comfort his father, but his fingers passed through his father’s shoulder.

            Castiel jerked back, gasping.  “Father!”  He screamed.

            Michael continued to pray.

* * *

            Castiel wasn’t sure how it happened, but he suddenly found himself out on the highway again, near to where he’d emerged from the trees.  _It was a mistake,_ Castiel thought.  _It must be._   He tipped his head back to draw in a breath and realized that sometime during arriving at his father’s house and returning here, the sun had risen.  “What is happening to me?”  Castiel murmured.

            The trees to Castiel’s right rustled and he turned just in time to see a shadowy figure moving steadily toward him through the tangle of underbrush.  Castiel gasped and turned, his legs already carrying him forward.  When he glanced back, he stumbled to a halt, confused and terrified to find the figure in front of him now.

            He backed away, and the figure approached, but as it drew nearer, Castiel realized it was a woman.  She wore dark jeans and a flowy black tunic.  He took another step back, blinked, and when he opened his eyes, she was right in front of him.  He sucked in a breath.  “You’re dying, Castiel.”  She said.  Her words should have terrified him—under any other circumstances, they would have dropped into his belly like ice.  But she said them in such a simple way, with just a touch of empathetic inflection that Castiel wasn’t scared.  Her dark hair was cut in a longish bob and her face was young.  Though her hazel eyes were not.  Castiel looked into them, just for a moment, and saw infinity staring back at him.  It was enough to cause him to take another step back.

            “What are you talking about?”  He asked around the lump in his throat.

            Her eyes softened and she folded her hands in front of her.  “You’ve been hurt very badly, Castiel.”

            “But,” Castiel protested, motioning to himself, “I’m right here!”

            She shook her head sadly.  “No.”  She nodded her head toward the trees.  “Your body is there.  And it’s dying.”  She waved her hand languidly at Castiel.  “This is your spirit.  You broke away from your body because the trauma was too much to bear.”

            Castiel’s lip wobbled.  “Can’t you help me?”

            “I wish I could, sweet boy, but that’s not why I’m here.”

            Castiel took another step away from her.  “Then why are you here?  Who are you?”

            The woman held out a hand to him but didn’t come any closer.  Her eyes were soft and sympathetic when she said “My name is Tessa.  I’ve come to help you move on.”

            “Move on?”  Castiel croaked.

            Tessa dropped her hand.  “I’m a reaper, Castiel.  I have guided many after their deaths.  It’s okay.”

            “But…”  Castiel shook his head.  “I can’t be dead.  I can’t be.”

            “Dean Winchester beat you to within an inch of your life, Castiel.  And then he and his friends took you deeper into the woods and left you there.  That is what happened.  I am sorry, but you _are_ dying.”

            Castiel bit his lip.  “Dying.  But not… dead yet?”

            Tessa shook her head.  “No, not yet.  But if you take my hand and just come with me, Castiel, the pain will end.  I promise.”

            “No, there has to be something else I can do.  I won’t give up that easily.  Please, Tessa.  Please tell me if there is something I can do.”

            Tessa regarded him silently for a moment, her face betraying nothing.  Finally, she said “There is one thing.  If you can get someone to find your body, before it draws its last breath, it might be enough to save you.”

            “But… I tried talking to my father.  He couldn’t see or hear me.”

            “No.  Most people won’t even know you’re there.”

            “Some will, though?”

            Tessa lifted her shoulder in a small shrug.  “It’s possible.  But rare.  Not everyone is able to sense spirits.  For the ones that are… you both have to want it.”

            Castiel hunched in on himself.  “How much time do I have?”

            Her eyes were fathomless when she said “Not much.”

            “But no one knows where I am!”  Castiel wailed.

            “That’s not true.”

            Castiel licked his lips, throat suddenly feeling very dry.  “The ones who did this to me.”  Castiel closed his eyes and clenched his fists, trying to stay calm.  “Dean did this to me!  He killed me!”  He shouted.  Dean’s face swam in his mind—green eyes hard and angry, face pale under the smattering of freckles that covered his nose and cheeks.  Images fluttered through his mind like snapshots—Dean shoving him into a locker.  Dean nearly choking him in the restroom.  Dean hovering over his prone form.  “Do you really think he’d _help_ me?!”  Castiel growled, opening his eyes.

            Tessa’s face was just as calm as before when she asked “Do you?”  And then she was gone, and Castiel was left standing alone on the highway.


	6. Invisible

 

 

Thursday

 

 

            The road was laid out before him, gray, never-ending.  Castiel didn’t know how long he walked—the movement didn’t mean anything, and he wasn’t paying attention.  He tried to kick a pebble out of his way, and nothing happened, except that his foot passed straight through with no effect.  If Castiel could have cried, he would have, but he had no tears now, either.  Castiel felt numb, and so he drifted.

            He wasn’t sure how he got there, but eventually he found himself standing outside of the school on the lawn, staring up at the red brick walls of the place he’d spent most of his time for the last three and a half years.  It was too quiet, now.

            Castiel blinked, and then he was standing in the middle of the bustling main hallway, invisible to everyone who passed him by, who walked through him like he wasn’t there.  Castiel turned in a slow circle, feeling a sudden, sharp panic rise in his throat like bile.  He opened his mouth and screamed.  No one heard him.

            Castiel drifted with them, remembered clearly the feel of them crashing into him with their bags and their shoulders, shunting him to the side.  Castiel paused at his locker, reached out a trembling hand to touch the metal.  His fingers passed through, and Castiel bit back another sob.  Castiel closed his eyes and turned, sank to the floor.  He pulled his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms around his legs, and held on tight.  He tipped his head forward so that he could rest his forehead on his arms, so that he could ignore the world around him, the world that he was no longer wholly a part of. 

            What was he meant to do, now?  Drift until his body died?  Drift until he faded away? 

            It wasn’t supposed to happen like this.

 

 

 

            Sometime later, Castiel was roused from his grim thoughts by the sound of crying, and pleading, and violence.  The boy’s restroom materialized around him, and Castiel was shocked, enraged to find Gordon Walker pressing Castiel’s friend Andy to the wall, with a knife to his throat.  Andy whimpered and tried to squirm away, but Gordon held him strong. 

            Castiel stormed up to Gordon and tried to pull his hand away, but nothing happened.  “Look at me.”  Gordon growled, and Andy opened red eyes, wet with tears. “You’re gonna keep your mouth shut, you hear me, Gallagher?”

            Andy shook his head feebly.  “I didn’t know,” He gasped.  “I didn’t know this is what would happen.”  Tears streamed from Andy’s eyes, tracking dirty lines on his flushed cheeks.  “You lied to me.  I never wanted him to get hurt.”  A sob ripped from Andy’s chest.  “And now… and now…”

            Gordon pressed the knife closer to Andy’s neck, close enough that the tip of the blade nicked the tender skin of his throat.  “And now you keep your mouth shut unless you want the same thing to happen to you.”

            Castiel turned away from the scene, his chest tight—he felt almost like he was drowning.  Andy had…what?  Told them something?  Helped them to kill Castiel?  Castiel felt anger, but it was muted—almost as though it was blocked by something even worse that he couldn’t name yet.

            Castiel walked through the bathroom door and carried on down the empty hallway.  All around him, he heard the tinny intercom announce, “Anyone who has information about the whereabouts of Castiel Novak should report to the office immediately.” 

            No one answered.

 

 

 

            Castiel thought that he must have ceased to exist for a while.

 

            He regained consciousness on the corner of a street that he didn’t recognize, his back pressed against a dirty brick wall, his eyes cast out across a row of old, run-down buildings.  One of them sported barbed wire around the top, as if that would be enough to keep the bad things out.  Castiel squinted against the mid-day sun and tried to understand why he was here. 

            A vague, dark movement in the corner of his eye caught Castiel’s attention and he turned, just in time to see a slouching figure lope around the corner, hands shoved into pockets, black hoodie on, with the hood pulled up.  Still, even without being able to see the person’s face, Castiel knew instinctively who it was.

            Dean was moving with purpose, his booted feet eating up the pavement as he strode down the sidewalk, face turned down against a breeze that Castiel couldn’t feel. 

            Castiel felt drowned by a sudden wash of fear and anger at the man who’d done this to him—Dean, who was walking free, alive, while Castiel’s body was dying alone in the woods somewhere, and his spirit was stuck wandering helplessly.  Dean, who had killed him.

            Castiel shuddered, and shook his head to try to push back the flashes of memory that surfaced—Dean straddling him, pinning him down, hitting him over and over, the dark cast of Dean’s eyes as he screamed at Castiel, headlights on a dark road.

            Dean crossed the road quickly, and Castiel matched his stride, the anger building with every step.  Once they were on the other side, Dean glanced around quickly before he pulled his bag around and yanked out a wad of material.  Castiel realized with a cold pang of dread that the clothes were the ones that Dean had been wearing the night before—they were still dirty, and smeared with Castiel’s blood.  Dean shoved them into the closest dumpster, glanced over his shoulder one more time to make sure he hadn’t been seen, then hurried along the sidewalk.  Castiel stood, staring for a moment.

            Dean was getting rid of evidence.  He was throwing away the proof of what he’d done to Castiel.  Making room to forget and move on.  Was that all Castiel’s death had warranted?!  A covert dumpster drop, and then that was it?! 

            NO!

            Castiel blinked and he’d caught up to Dean again.  He dashed in front of the other man, got a good look at his stubborn, set jaw, and hard eyes.  His face was pale, washed out.  Castiel hoped that he would never be able to sleep again.  “No!”  Castiel growled in Dean’s face.  He walked backward quickly, kept pace with Dean.  He wanted to be heard.  “No!  You don’t get to forget me that easily! You don’t get to move on!  You can’t throw me away like those clothes, Dean!”  Dean shrugged his backpack higher up his shoulders and sped up his pace.  Castiel held up his hands to stop Dean, but the other man took a large stride, and moved straight through him.

            Castiel sucked in a breath, shocked, his form tingling.  He turned, slowly, to find that Dean had also stopped.  His jaw was clenched tight, his hands fists at his sides.  Dean glanced around himself for a moment, as if he expected to see Castiel standing there.  Dean shook his head and cleared his throat.  “Get it together, Winchester.”

 

 

 

            Castiel followed Dean for hours as he wandered seemingly aimlessly around parts of the town that Castiel had never dared venture to before.  Dean didn’t say anything, or do anything except for walk, but a couple of times, Dean paused and hung his head, like he was confused or maybe even sad.  Castiel wished that he knew what the other man was thinking.  He wished that Dean could see him, hear him.  He wanted to haunt Dean.  Wanted to remind Dean, in vivid detail, of what he’d done, what he was still doing by ignoring Castiel.

            It was late afternoon when Dean stopped in front of a tall, grimy apartment building, sighed, and pulled his hoodie tighter around himself.  Castiel followed him up the stairs, keeping just a single step behind.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

            Dean paused just outside of the apartment complex and glanced around the parking lot.  Good—he couldn’t see Alastair or Lilith’s cars anywhere.  He’d have to hurry, though.  He knew without a doubt that he’d be fucked if he was still there when either of them got home.

            Dean trudged up the narrow staircase, weary to his core, the back of his neck tingling like he was being watched.  He’d felt that way for hours now.  Whatever.  He just had to learn to shake it off.  Nothing he could do about it now.

            Dean twisted the key in the lock and pushed the door open easily.  He was met with the familiar sounds of some educational show on the Discovery channel.  Sam was curled up on the couch, but when he turned his head and saw Dean, he leapt up and dashed over to his brother, threw his arms around Dean and squeezed him tight like he thought he’d never see him again.

            “Dean, where have you been?”  Sam asked, eyes wide and earnest.  “The police were here looking for you, Dean.  Some officer named Henriksen.  What happened Dean?”  Sam pleaded, “The cop said that you robbed a store.”

            Dean hugged Sam back but then slowly drew back, giving his brother a thorough once-over.  “You okay, Sammy?”

            Sam huffed and ran a hand through his too-long hair.  “I’m fine, Dean.  What about you?”

            Dean forced a grin.  “I’m awesome.”

            Sam frowned.  “It’s probably not safe for you to be here, is it?  The cops are still going to be looking for you.”

            “Yeah, Sam.  That’s why I can’t stay.  I just came for some things.”  Sam nodded but wrapped his arms around himself and looked away.  Dean felt uneasy, then—maybe it was Sam turning away, maybe it was something else—but he suddenly felt the need to _know_.  “Hey Sammy… would you turn on the news?”

            Sam shot him a weird look but shrugged and switched the channel, flopping back down on the couch.  Dean sank down next to him just as the picture changed.

            Cas’s face, frozen in an awkward half-smile, his eyes big and blue, hair mussed, stared back at him.  Dean felt like he’d been punched in the gut, but he forced himself to hold it together.  The caption under the photograph read “Castiel Novak, aged 17, reported missing late last night.  Last seen at the Saint Mary’s soup kitchen.  Please call 911 if you have any information regarding his whereabouts.”  Next to Dean, Sam gasped, but Dean couldn’t tear his eyes away from the tv screen to see what was wrong. 

            A moment later, Castiel’s image was replaced with a crowd of people: reporters and police, and civilians, but one man stood out.  He was tall, probably in his late 40s, and he had dark hair, and blue eyes in a solemn face.  One of the reporters held a mic in his face.  The man cleared his throat and looked directly into the camera.  His voice was steady when he spoke.  “My name is Michael Novak, Reverend of the Holy Fire Church.  I am Castiel’s father.  Castiel has been missing since yesterday.  He’s a good boy—he loves his friends and his family, and he always does what he can to help people in need.  Castiel was last seen at the soup kitchen where he volunteers once a week to help the homeless of this city.  We are putting together search parties now, and welcome all the help we can get.  Please, I implore you, if you know where Castiel is, please tell us.  His family loves him and misses him.  I miss him.”  The screen changed back to the photograph of Cas, and Dean felt like the boy could see him, was watching him, even now, though Dean knew it couldn’t be.  It was too late for Castiel.  All the searches and all the pleading would change nothing.  Cas was dead.

            Dean reached blindly for the remote, and when his fingers curled around it, he clicked the tv off.  He stared blankly at the dark screen for a moment before he realized that the couch was shaking slightly.  Dean turned to find Sam hunched over, his knees pulled up to his chest, arms wrapped around himself tightly.  Tears were streaming down his face, and he was sobbing enough that he was shaking.

            Dean frowned and reached out a hand to Sam, laying it gently on his brother’s back.  “What is it, Sam?”

            Sam shook his head and bit his lip to try to stop the tears.  Sam’s voice was wobbly when he whispered, “I know him, Dean.  Castiel.”  Dean felt a chill go down his spine.  “I forgot my lunch one time, and he shared his with me, and we sort of became friends.  We talk, sometimes.”  Sam sniffed.  “He’s a really good person.”  Dean felt like his heart had stopped cold in his chest.  Sam wiped the back of his hand over his eyes to wipe away the last of his tears.  “I hope nothing bad happened to him.”

            Dean stared at the innocent, red-splotched face of his brother, and he felt like he might be sick again.  So many emotions were clamoring to be felt, they threatened to drown Dean, to drag him under.  Instead, though, Dean pushed the feelings away and cleared his throat, his hand tightening on Sam’s shoulder.  He forced himself to say “Sometimes bad things happen, Sammy.  That’s just how life is.”

            Dean had to get out of the room, away from the tv and Sam, and the guilt that threatened to swamp him.  Sam followed Dean to their shared bedroom, where Dean yanked his dresser drawers open and retrieved more clothes.  Sam watched in silence while Dean packed, and when Dean turned, he saw that Sam’s eyes were still red-rimmed and his lower lip trembled.  Dean slung his backpack over his shoulders and faced his brother, grasped his shoulders tightly so he could be sure he had Sam’s attention.  They looked each other in the eyes, and Dean said “Look, Sammy, I don’t wanna leave, you know that.  But I’m gonna have to lay low for a while, just until everything blows over.”

            Sam frowned.  “Can’t you just tell me what happened, Dean?  Maybe I can help?”

            Dean sighed and closed his eyes for a moment, to gather whatever strength he still possessed.  “I can’t tell you, Sam, but you gotta trust me, alright?  I’m not going to be far, and I’ll make sure to come and check on you at night, okay?”  Dean yanked Sam to him, then, and crushed his little brother in his arms.  He pressed a kiss to Sam’s forehead before he pulled away and, with a last look at his brother, said “Leave the window unlocked.”

           

 

* * *

 

 

 

            Castiel was shaking with rage when he was suddenly yanked out of Dean’s home, and the next thing he knew, he was sitting on the couch in his own living room, staring across to where his cousin, Gabriel Milton, was perched on the other sofa next to Castiel’s father, rubbing his back soothingly to try to comfort him.  Castiel was still reeling from the abrupt change in location, when Gabriel leaned forward and said “They’re forming up the search parties right now, Uncle Mike.  And the police told me that they are busy interviewing all of Castiel’s classmates.” 

            The coffee table was situated between them all, and atop it lay Castiel’s journal.  Gabriel and Castiel’s father both looked at it, and so Castiel’s eyes were also drawn to it.  Michael’s voice was rough, raw, when he asked “Do you think this is a clue?”

            Castiel frowned and looked back down at the little brown journal.  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Gabriel shake his head.  Then his cousin murmured, “I don’t know, but he’s got a lot written about this D. W. in there.  I think we should at least look into it.”

            Castiel gasped and raised his eyes to his father and cousin then, almost vibrating with the force of his emotions.  His family would find Dean, they would question him, and maybe…. 

            Maybe hope wasn’t lost yet.   


	7. Regret

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, I hope you all enjoy, and please leave comments if you have time. They're like the air I breathe. :)

 

 

Thursday

 

 

            Castiel walked with the people who scoured the land near his home, looking for his body.  He wished he could tell them that he wasn’t there, that they needed to go much further if they wanted to find him, but of course he couldn’t.  He caught a glimpse of Tessa, once, watching him from the shadows of the trees.  She beckoned him forward with an outstretched hand, no more menacing than she had been upon their introduction, but Castiel ignored her. 

            He wasn’t going to go that easily, and not until his body breathed its last breath.

            Castiel recognized some of the searchers as family friends, people from his father’s congregation, and even some classmates who had apparently taken off of school to help.  Others, Castiel had never seen before.  It squeezed his heart to know that there were strangers in the town that cared enough to give up their time to help him, people who he didn’t know, and who would likely get nothing in return for their troubles. 

             Castiel felt like he could see everything so much more clearly now—there was nothing in the way of Castiel’s understanding.  All of the layers of social interaction, and the struggle with interpretation, had been torn away now.  Castiel was free to see and to hear, whatever he wanted.  It seemed, for the first time in his life, he was able to observe people without their masks on, to see who they truly were. 

 

 

 

 

            Castiel was pulled to his father’s house against his will, and once again found himself standing in the kitchen.  Michael and Gabriel were both there, sitting at the table with cups of coffee in their hands, and Castiel’s journal open between them.  A man that Castiel had never seen before was sitting with them.  He was an officer, dressed in full uniform, a middle-aged black man with a bald head, but when Castiel drew nearer, he could see that the man also had dark, deep, sympathetic eyes.  He fiddled with the handle of his own coffee mug and nodded slowly.  Castiel realized he’d missed a portion of their conversation already.

            Michael cleared his throat.  “Of course I appreciate any help that you can give, officer, but you’re not one of the men I’ve been working with thus far.  Why did they send you?”

            The officer bobbed his head in acknowledgment.  “It’s true.  I was busy with a case of my own, but now it seems possible that the two of them are related.”

            Gabriel narrowed his eyes.  “What other case?”

            The officer cast his dark gaze at Gabriel and said “Are either of you aware that Castiel witnessed a robbery on Tuesday night?”

            Michael bowed his head.  “Yes.  Castiel did mention it to me, but as no one was hurt, and the criminals weren’t identified, we decided to move past it.”

            The officer stared at Michael’s bowed head for a moment before saying “I see.”  He reached for the journal, fingers barely brushing the corner of it.  “On Wednesday, we got an anonymous phone call reporting a possible suspect for the crime.  Later that night, your son went missing.”

            Michael raised his head and frowned.  “You think the same person hurt my son?”

            Gabriel gritted his teeth and leaned across the table.  “Who is it?”

            Castiel found himself holding breath that he didn’t need, eyes wide, waiting for the name, but the officer only shook his head and said, “I can’t release that information.  The suspect is a minor.”

            Gabriel hissed “That’s bullshit!”  But the officer ignored his outburst.

            The officer focused his eyes on Michael, and very politely asked, “Can I borrow this?”  He tapped his fingers on the journal.

            Michael nodded.  “Yes, of course.  You can take anything if you think it’ll help.”

            The officer nodded and stood, tucking the journal under his arm.  “Thank you for your cooperation.”  He shook both Michael’s and Gabriel’s hands, and before he left the room, he promised, “I’m going to help you find your son.”

 

 

 

 

 

            Castiel found Dean after dark, sneaking into the high school’s gym. 

            Castiel was still furious from what he’d seen of Dean, earlier: getting rid of evidence, walking around like he wasn’t bothered at all by what he’d done, the life he ended, and then pretending like he didn’t know what was happening when he saw the news report.  He’d even managed to remain unaffected in the face of Sam’s anguish—that, more than anything, proved to Castiel that he’d been wrong about Dean all along.  Castiel had always thought that Dean could be helped, that he was a good person at heart, and was just trapped in terrible circumstances.  Now Castiel realized that he’d been wasting his time—he’d thrown his life away for _nothing_ —Dean couldn’t be helped, because he _didn’t want to be._

            Fine.  Castiel’s family, and the police were working through the clues, and they would realize Dean was guilty sooner or later.  They would catch him, and question him, and maybe Castiel would be saved.  If not… well, Castiel wanted Dean to feel miserable. He wanted Dean to think about him every time he closed his eyes.  He wanted Dean to feel the fear and the grief and the pain that Castiel had felt, was still feeling.  Castiel wanted Dean to be _haunted_ by him, in every sense of the word.

            Castiel’s time was limited, but he had here, he had now, and he was going to use it.  He followed closely behind Dean, followed him into the boy’s locker room, and watched with a feeling of detachment when Dean put his bag down and stared at himself in the mirror.  Castiel approached slowly, to stand next to Dean, close enough that if Castiel were in his body, their shoulders would be brushing.  He cast no reflection, but he still willed Dean to see it, anyway.  Castiel stared at Dean’s reflection—he looked tired, eyes more weary now than they had been before.  Good.  “Do you really feel nothing for what you’ve done, Dean?”  Castiel asked.  “You knew me.  Or at least, you thought you did, when you decided to take my life.”  Castiel reached out to touch Dean’s reflection, but it was no use either.  “I thought I knew you, too.”

            Dean jerked his eyes away from his reflection and began stripping almost violently, like he couldn’t bear the touch of the clothes on his body any longer.  Castiel fought with himself, then—to turn away, or to remain.  When Dean pulled his shirt over his head, Castiel got a clear look at the bruises and burn marks that marred Dean’s torso and his upper arms—little, round, cigarette-sized burns on his chest, and spanning across his broad shoulders. 

            Castiel turned away, then. 

            Castiel heard Dean turn the shower on and step under the spray with a groan.  Castiel slid to the floor against the other side of the shower wall, and decided to let his thoughts wander while his murderer indulged in something so mundane as a shower. 

            What would happen to him, when his body died?  Would he go to Heaven?  Hell?  Nothingness?  His father had always taught him that Heaven was waiting for people who lived a good life, but now that the time was at hand, Castiel felt real fear.  What if his father was wrong?  What if everything Castiel thought he knew was wrong?  He’d been wrong about Dean, after all.

            Castiel still couldn’t believe how stupid he’d been to trust the other man.  How easy it must have been, for Dean to track him to that lonely, dark road.  Castiel hadn’t fought, hadn’t tried to run at first, because he’d never truly believed that Dean would hurt him. How wrong he’d been.  If Castiel allowed himself to think about it, he could still feel the pain of each blow, could still feel the swell of fear and desperation when Dean tackled him to the ground and pinned him there.  Castiel remembered begging Dean to stop, scratching and shoving, and pleading with him to stop.  But Dean hadn’t.  Dean had killed him, and dragged his body deeper into the woods, and left him there.  And now Dean was continuing with his life like it had never happened.

            Castiel’s dark thoughts were shattered by the echo of a sob.  Castiel turned his head, but he was still alone in the locker room, except for Dean who was still showering.  Castiel strained his senses and heard it again—a wrecked sob that sounded like it was pulled from the ragged throat of a dying man.  Castiel frowned, refusing to believe what his brain insisted he was hearing.

            He wasn’t able to deny what he heard next, though.  The cries echoed louder than the pounding of the water, and Castiel heard Dean gasp.  “Cas….”  His name, spoken in the broken voice of the man who had killed him, sent a shudder through Castiel’s whole being.  Castiel’s form locked up, and he found himself unable to move.  All he could do was sit there on the cold tiled floor and listen to Dean Winchester break down in the locker room shower.  Castiel heard a thud from within the stall, and Dean’s wavering voice murmur “I’m so sorry, Cas.  God, I’m so sorry.”  Dean’s gasps turned to keening sounds, like he was being carved out from the inside.  “I never meant… Cas, I never meant….I’m so sorry.”

            Castiel was frozen.  He wished he could summon the words to yell back at Dean, to tell him that he had no right to say those things now, that his tears were wasted, because it was too late.  But in the end, Castiel was too stunned to say anything at all.

 

 

 

 

            Castiel followed numbly, entranced, as Dean crawled into the attic space above the gym.  Castiel wasn’t sure if he was surprised or not to find that the space looked and felt lived in, as though this was not the first time that Dean had slept there.

            Dean settled himself on a stack of blue mats and hunched over, pulling his knees to his chest.  Dean looked younger like this, with his hair still wet from the shower, and his eyes red and swollen from the tears he’d shed where no one could see him.  It made him look vulnerable, and Castiel wondered how many people had ever seen Dean Winchester like this.

            If Castiel had a heart, it might have stopped when Dean rummaged around in his bag and pulled out Castiel’s tan trench coat.  It was crumpled and creased, and smeared with dirt, but it was _here._ Castiel had just assumed that Dean had left it, or had thrown it away like he had his own clothes, but he hadn’t.  Dean set the material in his lap and stared down at it, silent.  His fingers gripped the material tightly and he shook his head.  “This is dumb, but…what the hell, it’s not like anyone can hear me, right?”  Castiel tilted his head and crawled closer, so that he was sitting across from Dean on the mat.  Dean took a deep breath and bowed his head over the coat like a prayer.  “Cas… I know this doesn’t mean anything now, maybe.  But… I’m sorry.  I never meant to… to hurt you, like that.  You made me _so angry_ but, hell… I know that’s not an excuse.  I have no excuse for what I did.”  Dean’s fingers clenched harder in the material and he looked up, green eyes staring straight at Castiel.  “I probably sound like an idiot right now, but, uh….”  Dean gulped.  “I sort of feel like you’re still here.  Like… you’re still watching me, like you used to.”

            Castiel reached out—maybe to hurt, maybe to comfort, he couldn’t be sure anymore—and his hand passed straight through Dean’s.

            “Maybe you’re haunting me.  Or maybe I just wish you were.”  The small space echoed with Dean’s self-deprecating laugh, and Castiel could see a fresh spill of tears on Dean’s freckled cheeks.  “I fucked everything up so much.”

            Dean stared into space for a moment, before he shoved the coat back in his bag and retrieved his iPod.  He crammed the earbuds in his ears and curled up on the mats, shivering slightly.  Castiel unfolded himself languidly and lay down next to Dean so that he could watch his face, see the slight play of emotions sweep over Dean’s tired features as he sank into sleep.

            Dean looked so innocent like this: long dark eyelashes brushing shadows against the swell of his cheeks, mouth slightly open, chest rising and falling with each blessed breath.  Dean’s fingers relaxed their grip on the iPod as he drifted off; his whole body seemed to loosen from the tension Dean normally held himself so tightly with.  Castiel reached out again, wanting desperately to connect with Dean in some way, maybe even just to remind himself of what life felt like…. Castiel’s fingers swept through Dean’s, but when they connected with the iPod, the machine crackled with static.  Castiel frowned and leaned closer.  He touched it again, and it emitted a loud, whining noise.  Castiel wrapped his own ethereal fingers around the iPod and leaned closer still, so that his mouth hovered next to Dean’s ear.  “Dean,” Castiel whispered.  “Can you hear me?”

            Dean frowned in his sleep and rolled over.  He mumbled something that Castiel couldn’t hear.

            “Dean.”

            “Cas,” Dean mumbled, mouth slack with sleep.  “’M sorry.”

            “Dean,” Castiel pressed, “I’m not dead yet.  You need to hear me.  I’m still alive out there.”

            Dean whined low in the back of his throat and his face crumpled.  “Cas….”

            “Listen to me, Dean.  _I’m alive!_ If you’re truly sorry, I need you to go back for me.  You can save me.  It’s not over yet.”

            “Cas.”  Dean stretched his hand out, and just for a moment, an earth-shattering moment, their fingers touched.  Castiel felt the touch rock his entire existence—Dean was warm, and alive, and wonderfully _solid._ Castiel remembered what Tessa told him—in order to communicate, both parties needed to want it.  Cas reached out his trembling hand once more, and brushed his fingers over Dean’s, but the connection didn’t happen again.  Dean rolled over and murmured “’M sorry, Cas.”  Another tear slipped from underneath his lashes.

            Castiel sighed and readjusted his position so that he could lie closer.  “You don’t get to be sad, Dean,” Castiel whispered as he reached out, fingers hovering lightly over Dean’s cheek.  “You’re the one who killed me.”


	8. Mourning

Friday

           

 

            Dean Winchester had a habit of talking in his sleep.  Castiel learned it that night—he laid next to Dean through the long, dark hours, and listened to the steady cadence of his breath, and the occasional unconscious whisper.  Dean called out to Sam once, his brows furrowed, a frown marring his face.  He cursed a lot, too— _fuck_ and _son of a bitch_ —rolling off his tongue in a growl.  He also spoke to Castiel.  At first, it was just his name, again: _Cas_.  Barely a whisper.  The next time he said it, it was on a whimper, and Dean curled in on himself even closer, as if to protect himself.  Castiel wondered if Dean was dreaming that Castiel was avenging himself, was hurting Dean in turn. 

            Castiel had wanted to before, of course… and the impulse wasn’t entirely dead, but he couldn’t really bring himself to consider it now.  Dean was the same Dean as he’d always been since Castiel had known him, and despite everything, Castiel had proof that Dean wasn’t made of stone, that he had a heart.  That he felt some regret for what he’d done. 

            Damn Dean Winchester. 

            Castiel still wasn’t over him. 

            Dean apologized again in his sleep, and his last word was just a soft, breathy _Cas_ and then he relaxed and slept soundly through the rest of the night.

            It was strange, because logically, Castiel knew that any moment could literally be his last, but he didn’t spend the night frantically trying to chase down help, or dwelling on the end.  It went against common sense, maybe, but he couldn’t convince himself that watching Dean Winchester sleep the whole night through was a waste of his time.  He’d spent his living days watching Dean, learning him.  It seemed only right that he watched him in death as well, or whatever this in-between was.

            Part of Castiel was still convinced that maybe Dean could be saved, and that maybe Dean could still save him, too.

            It was hours later when Dean groaned, signaling he was beginning to wake, and stretched his hand out across the mat.  Castiel reached out and, holding breath he no longer needed, touched his fingers to Dean’s. They connected again, and it was pure bliss for Castiel—for a moment, it made him feel alive again.  He curled his fingers around Dean’s warm, sleepy ones, and whispered “I’m here, Dean.  I’m still here.”

            Castiel felt a moment of disorientation when Dean’s hand was rudely yanked from his own—the world blurred for a moment—and then Castiel found himself standing on a long, lonely stretch of highway once more—not far from where he knew his body lay—just as the sun broke the horizon.

 

 

* * *

 

 

             Dean groaned and rolled over, blindly feeling for his phone to stop the annoying buzzing.  He was able to slap the sound off, but Dean could see sunlight peeking in through the dusty windows of the attic, and he knew it was already too late in the day to be lingering.  After Dean pushed himself up and stretched, he flipped his phone open to find a text from Benny: “Hey brother, u alright?”  Dean decided to ignore it.

             Dean gathered his things and left the school quickly, but he dragged his feet as he went.  For some reason, he felt even more exhausted now than he had when he’d finally fallen asleep the night before.

             The early morning air was chilly against the bare skin of Dean’s arms while he walked through the town toward the park, kicking pebbles out of his way as he went.  He’d dreamt of Cas last night—dreamt that the other boy was actually _there,_ huddled in the gym attic with him.  Dean shook his head and laughed derisively at himself.  Dean had never thought about the other boy this much before—he’d firmly tried _not_ to think of him and his big, soulful eyes.  But Cas was gone now, at Dean’s own hand, and he was haunting Dean, in every way.  In his dreams, Cas had told him that he wasn’t dead, that Dean could still save him.  God, Dean wished that was true, more than anything.  But he knew that it couldn’t be.  He’d seen the mess that was Cas’s body, and even Benny had confirmed that he was gone. 

             Dean wished that he could somehow take it all back—that he _could_ save Cas—from death, from Dean himself.  But Dean was sure that it was only the guilt gnawing at him, slowly driving him insane.  Benny had been right—there was no coming back from something like this.  Dean was losing his mind.  It was nothing worse than what he deserved.  Hell, he deserved a lot worse, and he had no doubt that someday, he was gonna get it.  Dean was pretty sure that if there really was a God, like Cas always said, then Dean was gonna go to Hell for this.

             But still….  It was strange.  It had almost felt as though Cas was with him, last night.

 

 

* * *

 

 

            Sam was alone at the apartment when the police officer came knocking again.  Sam pulled the door open, a bored look on his face as he faced the officer down.  The man cleared his throat and pulled his badge out.  “Hi there, I’m Officer Henriksen.  I don’t know if you remember me from a couple nights ago….”

            Sam frowned.  “I do.  What do you want?”

            Henriksen chuckled.  “Straight to the point, then, huh?  Alright.  What’s your name?”

            “Sam.”  Henriksen continued to stare at him, so Sam huffed, “Winchester.”

            “That’s what I thought.  Mind if I ask you some questions, Sam?”

            Sam eyed the officer for a moment.  “Are you allowed to do that?”

            Henriksen smiled but it seemed strained.  “You’re an expert on the legal code, huh?”

            Sam crossed his arms, completely unimpressed.  “I wanna be a lawyer someday.”

            That drew what looked like a genuine smile from Henriksen, or at least his lips quirked.  “Look, Sam, you’re right.  This’ll be completely off the books, though, I promise.  I just want to talk to you for a few minutes, if you have time.”

            Sam sighed and stepped away from the door.  “Fine.”

            Henriksen strode into the apartment, his eyes seeming to catalogue everything that he could see.  Sam turned his back on the officer and returned to his seat at the table, where he’d been working on his homework.  Henriksen followed him and pulled out another chair.  They stared at each other for a while, measuring each other up.  Henriksen folded his hands in front of him on the table and began, “So, Sam…”

            Sam cut him off with a frown, though, and a sharp wave of his hand.  He stared straight into the officer’s eyes and said “I’m not gonna talk about my brother, if that’s what you’re looking for here.  Don’t waste your time.”

            Henriksen stared back, assessing, before he tipped his head minutely.  “I can respect that.  I’m not here about Dean, though.”

            Sam frowned.  “Then what is this about?”

            Henriksen’s mouth tightened minutely and his eyes grew even more serious.  “How do you know Castiel Novak?”

            Sam was surprised by the turn in the conversation, and for a moment he couldn’t think what to say, but then he cleared his throat and murmured, “Castiel is my friend.”

            “Tell me about your friendship.”

            Sam folded his arms over his chest and glared back at Henriksen.  “Why?”

            Henriksen stared back calmly, “What you say may help us to find him.”

            Sam averted his eyes and drew in a shaky breath.  “I forgot my lunch one time, and Castiel came over to sit with me and share his.”  Sam swallowed thickly.  “I know his dad is a minister and that Castiel volunteers at the soup kitchen and stuff, and at first I just thought he was taking pity on me.  But Castiel wasn’t like that.  I didn’t feel like a project, you know?  He was just a nice guy, and after that day, we started talking, and sort of became friends, I guess.”

            Henriksen nodded.  “What did you two talk about?”

            “Lots of stuff.  School, life… Castiel was always willing to listen, and it was nice to have someone do that, you know?”

            “Sure, I can understand that.  Did you ever talk about your brother?”

            Sam narrowed his eyes again.  “What does this have to do with Dean?”

            Henriksen’s eyes had grown softer, and he didn’t look quite so put together now.  Henriksen’s voice was even softer when he asked, “Do you think your brother had any reason to harm Castiel Novak?”

            Sam felt like the air had been punched out of him, he was so shocked by the idea.  He shook his head resolutely.  “No, I don’t think Dean even knows who Castiel is.”

            Henriksen’s eyes were sad and his shoulders had slumped a bit, and Sam couldn’t help but wonder just what exactly was weighing on this man.  Henriksen reached in his inside coat pocket and withdrew a leather journal that he placed gently on the table between himself and Sam.  It was plain, innocuous, but Sam’s heart stuttered when Henriksen tapped his fingers against the cover and said, “This is Castiel Novak’s journal.  He wrote about you in here, Sam.”  Henriksen locked eyes with Sam imploringly.  “Sounds like he wrote about your brother, too.”

            Goosebumps rose on Sam’s arms and he swallowed down the creeping fear and panic that threatened to drown him.  “What does he write about?”

            Henriksen glanced around the apartment again, and then back to Sam, eyes unfathomable.  “All sorts of things, Sam.”

           

           

* * *

 

 

 

            It sort of made Dean feel like a kid again, when he sat on the swings in the park.  But it was kind of nice, too.  Sometimes he wished he was a kid again, wished that life was that simple once more.  Dean couldn’t even recall a time when he didn’t feel like the whole damn world was against him, but he knew that there had been a time when he was sweet and innocent.  He didn’t remember a whole lot about his mom anymore, but he remembered that she made him feel safe.  Dean hadn’t felt safe in a long damn time.

            He was slowly swinging on one of the cold, abandoned swings when Gordon finally found him.  Dean closed his eyes and tilted his head back to breathe in the fresh air, and when he straightened and opened his eyes again, Gordon was standing in front of him, hands shoved in his coat pockets.  He looked steadier than he usually did, less twitchy.

            Dean groaned.  “What do you want, Gordon?”

            Gordon shrugged.  “Saw you sitting out here all by yourself, figured I’d come say hi.”  Dean stared at him dispassionately and Gordon chuckled.  “Well, I had some extra cash, too.  Thought maybe you’d have something for me.”

            Dean snorted.  “I don’t have anything for you, Gordon, so fuck off.”

            Instead of leaving, Gordon cocked his head and continued to stare at Dean.  “You doing alright, Winchester?  You look tired.”

            Dean felt a chill go down his spine and he straightened.  “I’m fine.  And anyway, it’s none of your business.  So seriously… fuck off.”

            Gordon smirked.  “Looks like you might be cracking under the pressure, Dean.”  He chuckled darkly.  “What?  Can’t handle what you did?  Preacher boy getting to you?”

            Dean dropped from the swing and took one menacing step toward Gordon, teeth gritted.  “There’s nothing wrong with me,” Dean snarled.

            Gordon held his ground, and didn’t even flinch at Dean’s harsh growl.  He continued to stare at Dean, unfazed, as he said, “I’ve been upholding my part of the deal, making sure no one squeals.  So you better keep your mouth shut, too.”  Dean took another step forward and Gordon flicked his eyes over Dean, unimpressed.  “I’m not going down with you, Winchester.  So you better get your shit together.”  Then he turned and wandered out of the park, leaving Dean feeling cold and alone once more.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

            It took Castiel a long time to get back to him, but when he found Dean, he was in the process of sneaking into his own apartment via the fire escape.  Castiel watched from the street as Dean struggled in through the window, and then Castiel blinked and he was standing in Dean’s bedroom once more.  He was confused to find Dean standing, frozen, just inside the window, while Sam stood in front of him, arms crossed, eyes bright with anger.  Dean gulped and reached out toward his younger brother, asking, “What’s wrong, Sammy?”

            Sam jerked away from Dean.  “Do you know Castiel?”

            Castiel couldn’t tell who was more shocked by the question, himself or Dean.  Castiel watched the features of Dean’s face shift from concern to guilt, then go utterly blank.  Dean turned his eyes away from Sam and said, “No, Sam.  Thought we already talked about that.”

            “So you don’t know Castiel?  Never met him?”

            “Jesus Sam, no!  Why the hell do you keep pushing this?”

            Sam shook his head and snorted, took a step back from his brother.  “I can’t fucking believe you, Dean.”

            “Hey, watch your mouth!”

            “No!  No, I won’t!  I’ve seen Castiel’s journal, Dean.”

            Dean blanched and his mouth dropped open.  “What?”

            Sam nodded, his face a mix of triumph and sadness.  “I saw the things he wrote about you, Dean.”  Dean looked panicked then, but it couldn’t possibly compare to the dread that filled Castiel.  The police officer had taken his journal… he must have shown Sam, which meant that the man had put two and two together, and must be close to figuring out exactly what had happened.  But… the things that Castiel had written were private—he’d never meant anyone else to see them, and certainly not Sam.  Sam swallowed thickly, and Castiel could see now that there were tears in his eyes.  His voice wobbled when he asked, “Did you hurt Castiel?”

            Dean turned his eyes away, clenched his fists, and murmured, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

            Sam stalked forward, so that Dean _had_ to look up at him, or retreat.  “Is it true, Dean?  What Castiel said?  About what they’ve been doing to you?”  The words practically gutted Dean and he deflated; all the defiance drained from his body.  Castiel stood, transfixed, unable to look away from the tableau playing out in front of him.  No…he’d never meant for anyone else to read his words.  Sam gulped and reached out for his brother.  “How could you let them do that to you, Dean?”  Sam’s tears were falling freely down his cheeks now.  “How come you never told me?”

            Dean jerked away from Sam’s touch and squared his shoulders.  “I was protecting you, Sammy!  I was doing what I had to do!”

            “No!”  Sam growled.  “I never would have wanted you to do those things, Dean!  You think I want to see you hurt instead?!”  The brothers squared off, staring at each other, heaving in deep breaths, and Castiel could practically _feel_ the pain between them—somehow it even managed to overwhelm his own.  Sam’s voice was quiet, tired, when he asked, “What happened to Castiel, Dean?”  Dean turned away so that he didn’t have to look into the big, sad eyes of his little brother.  “I know that he’s the one who called the police on you, Dean.  I know what you did.”  Dean reached out for his brother with a shaking hand, but Sam turned away from him.  “He really cares about you, you know.”  Sam murmured and shook his head.  “It almost sounded like….”

            Dean gulped, eyes wide and glassy with unshed tears.  “Like what?”

            “Nothing.”

           

 

 

            Dean felt like his heart was being torn from his chest, and it was hard for him to breathe.  What was Sam getting at?  What had Cas written about him?  _Oh my God,_ Dean thought, _Cas wrote about me._ How had Cas known all those things about him?  Dean felt like he might be sick, like he might spew his guts all over his bedroom floor.  “Sammy,” Dean croaked, desperate to know what the journal had said. 

            But it all went to hell when the door to the bedroom crashed open and Alastair and Lilith both stalked in, flanking each other and blocking the door.  Alastair grinned at Dean and said, “Well hello, Dean.  Nice of you to finally drop in.”  His voice was sickly-sweet, smarmy as ever, and it only made Dean feel sicker.  “Where’ve you been?  We sure missed you, didn’t we, darling?”

            Lilith smirked and crossed her arms, her long, blood-red nails tapping at her elbows.  “Sure did.”

            “Get behind me, Sammy,” Dean growled.  Then he raised his eyes to the two twisted fuckers that had made his life a living hell.  “Get out of my way.”

            Alastair chuckled.  “Oh, no.  I don’t think we will.  The police are looking for you, you know.  I think it’s my responsibility to give them a call now that I know where you’re at.  I want to do right by you, Dean.  You understand.”

            Dean balled his fists.  “Go ahead.   Call ‘em.  I’ll tell them every sick thing you’ve ever done, you twisted son of a bitch.  I swear it.”

            “Who would believe a hopeless little bitch like you?  You’re a criminal, Dean.  And from what I hear, you’ve moved up from petty theft lately.”  Alastair smirked.  “I saw that boy on the news, Dean.  He was awfully pretty, wasn’t he?  Shame no one knows what happened to him.”

            Dean snapped then and jerked the gun from the small of his back, hand shaking with suppressed fear and rage.  “Get the fuck out of my way, Alastair.”

            Alastair laughed and the sound sent ice through Dean’s veins.  “What’ll you do when you leave here, Dean?  You can’t watch over little Sammy all the time.”

            Dean narrowed his eyes, his finger just _itching_ to pull the trigger.  “Sammy is coming with me.  And I swear to God, if you ever lay a hand on him, I will put a bullet through your fucking skull, do you hear me?!  Now get out of my fucking way!”

            Alastair continued to grin nastily at Dean, but he stepped away from the door.  Dean was thankful when Sam followed silently behind him without protest.

 

           

 

 

            The moment they stepped out onto the street, Sam pulled away from Dean, confused and angry.  “Where are we going, Dean?  I want answers, and I want to know what happened to Castiel!”

            “Sam, please—just come with me, okay?  We need to get away from here as fast as we can.  I’m pretty sure that motherfucker is already on the phone with the police.”

            Sam huffed.  “Fine.  Let’s go.”  He followed Dean down the road and through side streets and alleys until they came to the place between the 7-Eleven and the Laundromat.

            Dean pulled out his phone and dialed the number he knew by heart.  The phone only rang once before Benny picked up, drawling “Hey, Dean, you alright?”

            Dean shook his head, even though he knew that Benny couldn’t see him.  “Benny, man, I need a favor.  It’s about Sam.”

            “Sure, brother.  Where ya at?”

            “Our usual meet up.  Hurry, alright?  Everything is going to hell fast.”

            “’Course.  I’ll be right there.”

            Sam’s voice was a constant string of questions that felt like they were killing Dean, one syllable at a time.  “What’s happening?  Why did you call Benny?  Where are we going, Dean?  What happened to Castiel?  What did you do to him?  What’s going to happen when the cops find us?”

            “Sam, please….”  Dean begged.  “Just...let it go.  I can’t talk about it.”

            Sam protested, of course, but Dean tuned him out.  He couldn’t handle his brother at the moment, couldn’t handle the disappointment, shame, and distrust that shone out at him from Sam’s eyes. 

            Dean was thankful when Benny finally showed up.

            Benny looked Dean over critically and shook his head sadly.  “You don’t look good, brother.  What happened?”

            Dean tipped his head back, a broken laugh tearing from his throat.  His eyes were watery when he glanced back at his only friend.  “You were right, man.  About everything.  There’s no getting out of this for me.”

            Sam’s voice was a panicked hum in Dean’s ears but he managed to ignore him.  Benny frowned seriously.  “What do you need me to do?”

            “Take Sam to a safe place.  Keep an eye on him, alright?  Promise?”

            “’Course, Dean.  I promise.”  Benny’s eyes narrowed in concern.  “What about you?”

            Dean swallowed down the tears that were threatening to choke him.  “I uh… I dunno what’s gonna happen to me.  But I’m gonna try to set things right.”

 

 

 

            Dean had to fight Sam to get him into Benny’s car, but Dean eventually won, and buckled Sam in.  “Promise me you’ll stay with Benny.  He’ll look out for you.”

            Sam’s eyes were wide, drenched in tears, but he gave Dean a firm nod.  “I will, Dean.  But what are you gonna do?  Please, let me help!”

            “I love you, Sam, more than anything.”  Dean ducked and pressed a kiss to Sam’s forehead.  “But there’s nothing you can do to help me.”  Then Dean slammed the passenger door and banged on the hood of the car.  Benny peeled away from the curb a second later and Dean watched until the car was out of sight.

            He had a lot to do, now, and he was running out of time.


	9. Penance

Friday

 

 

            Dean had never been to this part of town before, and he wasn’t even sure what led him here now.  When he became aware of his surroundings, he found that his feet had taken him to a church on the good side of town, and it was just about the last place he expected to end up. 

            The sun had already set and the sky was growing darker, but the church windows were lit from within by candle light. 

            Dean was sort of surprised to find the door unlocked.  Didn’t people know any better than to leave nice places like this open?  Never knew who was gonna find their way in.  But then, maybe that was the point.

            The church was empty when Dean pushed the door open.  The flickering behind the stained glass window panes ended up being the light of hundreds of candles ranged against the walls.  Dean had never seen anything like it, and he didn’t know what it was for, but the sight made his throat tighten up, so he tore his gaze away.

            Dean wasn’t the praying type.  Never had been since he was a child and he was torn out of his home and thrown into the system and God did nothing to stop it.  Even now, Dean felt foolish and ashamed to step foot into the church.  It made him feel weak—it felt like begging—but what else was there to do?

            Dean sank to his knees in front of the altar, his knees aching against the hard stone floor.  He cast his eyes upward to the cross hanging above him, and struggled to think of something, anything, to say that might mean something here. 

            “I’m sorry, so sorry.”  He whispered, his voice wavering.  The multitude of candles reflected in his eyes.  “I take it back.  I take it all back.”  He pleaded.  His throat tightened with grief and regret, and a single tear welled and finally rolled down his cheek.  “I never meant…”  His voice failed him and he bowed his head to the floor, his fists slamming down on either side of his head.  “Please, God… if you exist, please.  He didn’t deserve it.  Help me to fix this.”

            Dean never heard the man approach, but suddenly the preacher was standing next to him, a hand reaching out hesitantly to touch Dean.  “Young man, are you alright?”

            Dean jerked back and shot to his feet, swiping the back of his hand across his eyes quickly, clearing his throat, “Um, yeah.  I’m fine.”

            “Is there something I can help you with?”  The preacher asked, and his eyes were blue, kind, intense in the way that they met Dean’s and suddenly Dean felt like he was going to puke all over his boots.  The reason this man looked familiar was because he was Castiel’s father.  His eyes were sad and Dean knew why.  Dean knew that everyone had been looking for Cas, that there were search parties combing the woods at that very moment.  And Cas’s father was here, asking Dean if he needed help.  Dean could feel the hysteria crawling up the back of his throat and he had to get out before it escaped.  He jerked his head in the negative and pushed past the preacher, taking off at a run as soon as he burst through the church doors.  He barely made it around the corner before he puked his guts up.

 

 

 

 

            Dean felt like he was going crazy, like he’d steadily been losing his mind this whole time, but part of him believed that Cas might actually be haunting him.  Dean ducked into an alley way and sank to the ground, his back pressed against the dirty brick.  He pulled his knees up to his chest and folded his arms over them and hugged himself like he hadn’t done since he was a child.  It took him a moment calm himself down and slow his breathing to normal.  When he finally felt like he had control of himself again, he lifted his head and took a deep breath.  Eyes closed tight with concentration, he asked the empty air: “Cas… you there?”

 

            If Castiel could have cried, he would have.  He knelt down in front of Dean, unaffected by the cold and the dirt of the alleyway, the smell of stale beer and trash and piss.  Castiel steadied his own shaking hands and reached out to Dean, lightly resting his own palms against Dean’s.  Dean sucked in a breath and clenched his hands around Castiel’s, and for a moment it almost felt like they were touching.  Castiel could almost feel the solid warmth of Dean’s skin.  Dean’s eyes were still squeezed shut, his brows drawn down.  His lips quivered as he asked “Cas?”

            “Dean.  I’m here.”

            Dean’s mouth dropped open slightly and he licked his lips.  “I… I can feel you.”  Dean breathed.  “You’ve been with me this whole time, haven’t you?”

            Castiel folded his own hands tighter around Dean’s and held on as hard as he could.   “Yes.”  Castiel leant closer, desperate for Dean to hear him, to understand him.  He didn’t know what kind of miracle was allowing them to speak to one another, but Castiel was determined not to let the moment pass.  “Dean—I’m still alive.  I’m not dead yet.”

            “What?”  Dean frowned. 

            “My body is hurt… I’m dying, but I’m not dead yet.  You can still change this, Dean.  You can save me.”

            Dean squeezed his hands again, his thumb stroking over the back of one of Castiel’s, and Castiel _felt it_.  “I’m so sorry, Cas.”

            Castiel nodded and moved forward, tipping his forehead against Dean’s.  He wondered if the other boy could feel that too.  “I know, Dean.  But that’s not enough.  I need you to fix it.  Please.  Please go to my body.  The reaper… she’s coming.”

            “Cas….”  Dean whispered, shuddering at the touch.

            In the next instant, Castiel felt a _tearing_ in his being and he was jerked away from the alley—everything was a blur—and then his feet crunched down on dead leaves and he found himself looking down at his own broken and bloody body.  Castiel jolted away from it, his eyes widening at the sudden shuddering pain that vibrated his self.  On the forest floor, his body wheezed and convulsed.

            Castiel was not surprised when Tessa glided smoothly up next to him, and also looked down upon his body.  “It’s time.”

 

 

 

 

            Dean felt his absence just as strongly as he’d just felt Castiel’s presence, and it felt like a sharp blow to the stomach.  He heaved himself to his feet, glancing wildly around the alleyway, but he was alone again.  God, maybe he wasn’t going crazy.  Maybe Cas really _was_ with him.  What if… what if Dean hadn’t dreamed what Cas had said?  What if he was still alive out there?  Against all chances, and all hope, God… maybe Cas was still breathing?

            Before he could give it any more thought, Dean pulled his cell from his pocket and flipped it open, dialing a number he had long avoided.  It only rang once before a professional female voice picked up and asked if there was an emergency.  Dean shrugged awkwardly, even though the woman couldn’t see him, and said “Uh…sort of?  Can I speak with Officer Henricksen?  It’s important.”

            A minute later, Dean heard the click of the extension and a deep, weary voice picked up.  “Henricksen here.”

            Dean’s throat suddenly felt too tight; there wasn’t enough air in the alley, and he felt hot under his skin, but he forced himself to clear his throat and say, “Yeah.  This is Dean Winchester.  I hear you’ve been looking for me.”

            The line was silent just for a heartbeat, and then Dean heard desperate scrambling on the other end.  Then Henricksen coughed and said “Dean.  You’re a hard man to find.”

            “Yeah, well, I didn’t wanna be found.”

            “So why are you calling me now?”

            “Look man, I’m not the uh… share and care kind of guy, alright, and I’m not gonna pretend like I don’t have a fucking record a mile long.  I won’t even apologize for that bullshit because I’ve always done what I needed to do to get by, but uh… there’s this one thing that I….”  Dean sighed and closed his eyes.

            “I spoke with your brother.”

            Dean’s eyes popped open again and just the mention of Sam squeezed at his heart.  “Yeah, I know.”  Dean huffed and tipped his head back.  The sky was dark, but no stars were out yet.  “That’s why I’m calling you.  I need a favor.”  When Henricksen didn’t laugh or dismiss him, Dean continued.  “I fucked up real bad, man. I made a lot of fucking mistakes, and this is the worst, and I’ll tell you everything, but first you gotta promise me that no matter what happens, you’ll make sure that Sammy is taken care of.  Those people we’ve been living with are sick motherfuckers.  You wouldn’t believe the kind of shit….”  Dean realized that he’d started to raise his voice, so he fought for a moment to regain control.  “Promise me you won’t let him go back to that.”

            Henricksen’s voice was soothing on the other line.  “I promise I will look after your brother, Dean.”  The line was tense with unspoken words for a moment before Henricksen ventured, “I had my suspicions anyway.  Castiel Novak wrote quite extensively about you.”

            Dean swallowed thickly and it almost felt like he was fighting back a sob.  “Yeah.”

            “Dean, did you rob the convenience store?”

            Dean nodded and squeezed his eyes shut.  “Yeah.”

            “Are you aware that someone reported you?”

            Dean coughed.  “It was Cas.  I know.  He told me.”

            The line was silent for a long moment, then, and Dean wondered if Henricksen was afraid to ask the next question.  Finally, though, he did ask in a whisper,  “Dean… do you know what happened to Castiel Novak?”

            Again, Dean nodded, and his voice broke when he choked out, “Yeah.  I um… I…hurt him…real bad.”

            Henricksen sucked in a shocked breath, and pressed, “Is he alive, Dean?”

            Dean shrugged helplessly.  “I dunno, man.”  He realized that he was crying again, but he didn’t know when it had started.  “I thought I killed him, but I dunno if I still believe that.  I mean… I think maybe he’s still alive.”

            “Dean, where is he?  Can you tell me?”

            “Nah, man.  I can’t describe it.  It’s in the woods.  I have to walk there.”

            “Dean, take me there.  Please.”

            “You’ll arrest me, I know how this goes.  And I got shit to do before then.”

            “ _Dean,_ ” Henricksen’s voice was pleading now, “Please, let me help you.  Let me help Castiel.”

            Dean chuckled brokenly.  “God, why does everyone keep saying they wanna help me?  Man, there _is no helping me._ ”

            “Dean, don’t do anything stupid.”

            Dean snorted and rubbed at his forehead.  “You know, seems like everything I’ve ever done is stupid.  But uh… not this.  This is the first thing that ain’t stupid.”

            Henricksen’s voice was hushed, close to the phone when he asked, “Dean…What are you going to do?”

            Dean laughed, but the sound was desperate, hollow.  “I’m gonna go make it right.”  Then he flipped the phone shut.


	10. Raised

Friday

 

            The stretch of forest along the highway all looked the same—a tall wall of pine trees, drenched in a wash of moonlight and fog.  It was desolate, abandoned.  Even still, Dean was able to find the exact spot where Benny had pulled his car off the road just two nights before.  God, it felt like an eternity—Dean had grown old in that time, had been beat down, wrecked.  And he’d destroyed so much.  If Dean looked hard enough, he could still see the tire tracks in the thin gravel at the side of the road, and he could imagine the scuffle marks from his and Cas’s confrontation, before…before….

            “Cas?”  Dean called, but there was no answer except for his own muffled echo.  “Shit.”  He muttered, right before he pushed his way into the woods.  He remembered running after Cas, chasing him down over fallen logs and grasping vines, not following any visible path.  Dean remembered tackling the smaller boy, pinning him down, and hitting him.  He flinched at the memory.

            He’d been so _out of it_ after, when they’d moved the body, but he knew that it had to be close, because they hadn’t wanted to waste any more time than was necessary to hide the evidence of their crime.  Benny, who drove and helped to hide the body.  Gordon, who helped to track Cas down, and kicked him, and carried the body further away from civilization.  Dean, who had killed one of the only people to ever care about him.

            It was a long walk through the tangle of trees, and Dean felt almost like each step was another in the descent toward Hell.  Still, he had to hope.

           

 

 

            Finally Dean reached the place where they had left Cas’s body, and despite the fog he’d been trapped in during the incident, he was sure this was the spot, except…Cas wasn’t there.  Dean’s heart leapt in panic, and he glanced around wildly, a million terrible thoughts jumbling in his mind—maybe this _wasn’t_ the place, what if some psycho found him, what if _animals_ did, what if it was _too late_?!  Dean spun in a circle, throat tight on an anguished sob, but then he noticed them—drag marks on the ground.

            Dean frowned and looked closer, and he noticed that there were foot prints as well.  He followed them. 

            Dean walked for perhaps another quarter mile, his eyes focused on the drag marks, until he heard scuffing ahead of him.  He should have been smart about it, should have hid and observed, but there wasn’t time for that.  So Dean leapt into sight and was shocked to find Gordon with his hands underneath Cas’s limp arms, dragging him.  Dean sucked in a breath and Gordon glanced up.  “What the fuck are you doing?”  Dean demanded.

            Gordon sneered and released his hold, dropping Cas’s body to the leafy forest floor an instant before he pulled a gun and leveled it at Dean.  “Winchester.  What are you doing here?”

Dean gulped and had to fight not to look at the body at their feet.  “I came to make it right, Gordon.  I’ve gotta take him back.”

            Gordon chuckled darkly.  “That’s why I’m here, Winchester.  When I saw you in the park, I knew there was something wrong with you.  You’ve cracked.  And now you wanna be a bitch and turn yourself in?  Fuck that.  I don’t give a shit about you, but I’m not going down with you, Winchester.  So I’m here to make sure the job’s done right, once and for all.”

            “Gordon,” Dean growled.

            “Nah, Winchester, you shut up and listen to me, now, alright?  This Novak kid was a dumb little bitch, anyways.  You think I didn’t notice the way he was always following you around like a confused little puppy dog, the self-righteous little son of a bitch?  He’s not worth losing your life over, Winchester.  And he sure as hell isn’t worth mine.”

            “Gordon, man, I can’t let you do this.  I made a promise.  I gotta bring him back.”

            “Fuck that, Winchester.  I’ll finish it right here, and I’ll take you out too, if I have to.”

            The tense moment of silence that followed was broken by a quiet moan from Cas, who lay crumpled on the ground.  Gordon startled and jerked his eyes down at Cas.  Dean took that moment of confusion to pull his own gun from the small of his back, and he leveled it at Gordon for just a fraction of a second before he pulled the trigger. 

            The crack of the shot was deafening in the close air of the forest, and Gordon gasped, shocked, before he fell to his knees beside Cas.  He glared at Dean as blood bubbled over his lips, but then the gun dropped from his grasp and he collapsed.

            Dean dashed over to Cas’s side, frantic, hands hovering over the other boy for a moment, afraid to touch him.  “Oh God, you’re alive,” Dean breathed.  He pressed a tentative, shaking hand to Cas’s neck, and he could feel a faint, unsteady pulse.  Dean swallowed thickly as his eyes swept over Cas frantically.  It was too dark in the woods to see clearly, but he knew that Cas was in terrible shape, and probably hanging onto life by a thread.  “I’m gonna get you out of here, Cas.  Hold on.”

            Dean scooped Cas carefully into his arms and lifted him—Cas was dead weight, his body limp against Dean’s chest.  But he was alive, and right now, that was all that mattered.  So Dean tightened his grip and turned back toward the highway. 

            Dean should have known it wouldn’t be that easy.  He was walking away, back turned, when he felt a burning pain, a tearing in his side in the same instant he heard another crack of gunshot.  Dean screamed and stumbled, body spasming, and he went down on his knees—he almost dropped Cas, but he managed to hold on tight, desperate.  He shook and his eyes fluttered at the pain, but when he glanced back, he saw Gordon drop the gun and go limp again.  “Son of a…bitch,” Dean gasped.  Gordon had shot him.  Dean wasn’t sure how bad it was, but he knew that it was bad enough.  He had to get Cas out of these woods _now._

The world faded in and out, and somewhere along the way, Dean lost track of time.  He thought they might be lost, that his own muddled brain might end up getting both him and Cas killed, but then he passed a set of trees that looked familiar, and he kept going, even though he was starting to lose feeling in his legs.  Dean stumbled again, and almost went down, but he forced himself to carry on.  In his arms, Cas gurgled low in his throat, and Dean feared that he might be choking on his own blood.

            It took forever, but eventually Dean reached the tree line and tripped out into the open air of the highway.  He sank to his knees on the pavement and laid Cas out. 

            Dean knew that he’d lost too much blood, and the world was beginning to spin, but he still had enough energy left to do what needed to be done.  He fished his phone out of his pocket and dialed the police department.  He gruffly asked for Henricksen and was directed to the officer quickly.  “Henricksen!”  A deep voice barked.

            “Heeey, Henricksen,” Dean drawled.  “It’s Dean Winchester.  I uh…I fucked up again.  But I have Cas.  He’s alive.”  Dean gasped at another spike of pain.  “But you gotta hurry man, I don’t know how much longer he can hang on.”

            “Dean—where are you?  Give me your location and I’ll send an ambulance right away.”

            Dean chuckled, and then it turned to a cough, and blood stained his lips.  He grimaced at the bitter, coppery taste and looked around.  “We’re out on the highway, halfway between the convenience store and the Novak house.  And…Gordon Walker is about a half mile or so in the woods.”

            “Who?  Gordon Walker?  Dean, is he alive?”

            Dean shrugged and wobbled, almost drunkenly on his knees.  He gasped.  “I don’t know.  He was gonna kill Cas, so I shot him.  Be he,” Dean laughed again, “He shot me too.”

            Henricksen’s voice became even more tense, if that was possible.  “Dean, where did he shoot you?  How bad is it?”

            “He got me pretty good in the side.  I uh…I think I’m dying.”  Dean blinked, and it took a moment for the world to focus once more.

            “Dean, hold on!  An ambulance is on the way.  Just hold on!”

            “Great.”  Dean mumbled.  The phone slipped from his fingers and clattered on the pavement, but it didn’t hang up.  Dean was too weary to stay on his knees, though, so he slumped over and sprawled out next to Cas on the pavement, and he closed his eyes.

           

 

 

 

 

            Dean wasn’t sure how long he’d been out, but when he blinked his eyes open again, he was surprised to find a dark haired, dark-eyed woman standing over him and Cas, watching them both quietly.

            Dean groaned and tried to push himself up, but he couldn’t quite make it.  Somewhere in his cloudy mind, he knew who this was, and he knew what was happening.        “You...you’re the reaper.”  Dean mumbled.  “Cas told me about you.  Please don’t take him.  It was a mistake, an accident.  It isn’t his time.”  Dean’s head wobbled on his shoulders and he could barely hold it up.  He’d lost too much blood.

            The woman nodded minutely.  “I was sent to gather a soul, Dean.  Castiel’s time has come.  He has overstayed his time because I have shown him pity, but I cannot wait any longer.  It is time for him to go.”

            “No,” Dean gasped, and shoved himself up and over, so that his body balanced precariously over Cas’s own: a shivery, wobbly shield. “I won’t let you.” 

            “Dean,” the woman said patiently, “I am a reaper.  There is nothing you can do to stop me.”

            “Please.”  Dean begged, his throat thick with blood and emotion, his eyes watery.  “Isn’t there a way you can save him?”

            “No, I’m sorry.  I was sent to reap a soul.  It is my duty to do so.”

            Dean gulped and reviewed her words frantically for a moment before he croaked “Any soul, or Cas’s?”  The reaper was silent, staring at Dean with her dark, unreadable eyes.  “Take mine.”

            “You will die.”  She said matter of factly, as though speaking to a slow child.

            “I don’t care, just… just take whatever you need from me.  But save him.  Please.”

            “Why would you give your life for his?  You are the one who killed Castiel, Dean Winchester.  This is your doing.”  There was no reproach, only fact, in her tone and that made the words hurt twice as much.  Dean shuddered.

            “I—I know.  But I was wrong.  _He didn’t deserve to die_.  _He didn’t deserve any of this._   _Please_ …let me fix my mistake.”

            “If I take you now, you will be gone from this world forever, Dean.  You will not remain as a ghost like Castiel has done.  You will not be able to come back.”  She tilted her head slightly, a curious expression on a servant of Death.  “You would leave your brother?”  Dean could feel his heart in his throat, and the tears falling freely down his cheeks now.  He didn’t speak for fear of sobbing, so he nodded his head sharply, once, in the affirmative.  “Very well.”  The reaper held her hand out to him. 

             Dean glanced down for a moment to look into the bruised face of the boy he killed, the boy he hardly knew.  Cas.  He tentatively raised a hand to his face, gently brushed his thumb over Cas’s bruised and bloody bottom lip, over, caressed his pale, chilled cheek.  Dean leant forward and brushed his own lips across Cas’s brow.  “I’m so sorry,” Dean murmured against his hair.  He closed his eyes and simply inhaled for a moment.  Then he pulled away, carefully untangling his limbs from Cas’s.  A shiver shook through Dean and he gasped, the sound ripping from his throat.  His eyelids fluttered and he collapsed, his eyes rolling back in his head.

 

 

 

 

             His watch stood frozen at 11:33. 

             Sirens wailed in the distance, closing in, but it was already too late.  “It’s time to go.”  The reaper held her hand out to him, her dark, fathomless eyes neither sympathetic nor threatening.  Dean turned his eyes back to the two broken bodies lying twined together on the pavement, pale in the night, blood spreading in a growing puddle around them.  How had it come to this?

             He knelt and brushed his fingers over the phone that still lay, open, though the light had dimmed to black.  Henricksen’s strained voice poured out of it, words jumbled into a heavy cadence, but Dean could not discern what the voice was saying.  Not that it mattered.  Not anymore.  “Take my hand.”  The woman prompted.  Dean cast his eyes back up to the reaper. 

             “What will happen to him?”  He asked, motioning toward Cas.

             “These events no longer concern you, Dean.  It is done.  And your time is up.”

             Dean reached out and took the reaper’s hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's not over yet, but feel free to yell at me if you want :)


	11. Resuscitation

 

 

Sunday

 

 

            Beep…Beep…Beep.  Dean blinked awake, the heavy fog of unconsciousness slipping away to make room for the dim lights, steady beeping and whirring, and the hushed murmurs and shuffling that alerted him to where he was.  It took Dean a moment to get his bearings.  He was in the hospital.  He was alone.  And he’d been handcuffed to the rail of his bed.

             A moment later, Dean’s heart leapt in his chest and he lurched up to a sitting position, breath panting out of him, handcuff chain rattling.  The machine next to his bed sped up—beep beep beep—and Dean realized that he was having a panic attack.  He wheezed with the effort of trying to get himself under control, but he hurt all over and when he glanced down the neck of his hospital gown, he noticed thick bandaging on his side.  Right.  He’d been shot.

             Dean gulped and squeezed his eyes shut.  This couldn’t be happening.  It just couldn’t.  He’d expected to die out on that lonely stretch of road—the reaper was supposed to take him.  Dean had been prepared for that!  He’d agreed to it!  But he was alive.  Did that mean… was Cas dead?

             A low whine escaped Dean’s throat and he used his free hand to frantically press at the “help” button located next to his bed.    His door opened quickly and footsteps tapped across the tile to his bedside.  A moment later, a dark-haired, dark-eyed woman in nurse’s scrubs gripped Dean by his shoulders and tried to get him to focus.  “Calm down.  Breathe.  What is it?  What’s happened?”  Her words were urgent, but her tone was soothing, and Dean gulped, trying to focus on her instead of the crushing weight of guilt and panic that lurked right at the corner of his mind.  

             Dean sucked in a breath and realized he was shaking.  “Where is he?  Is he alive?  Please, is he alive?  How did I get here?  How long have I been here?”

            “Calm down, sir.  Please.  I don’t know what you’re talking about.  I’m sorry.  Are you alright?  Do you need my help?”

            “I need to know that he’s okay!”  Dean shouted, jerking out of her hold.  His handcuff clinked against the bedframe again.

            The nurse held her hands up and backed away a step, assessing Dean.  She must have just realized that Dean was dangerous, and cuffed for a reason.  “I don’t have any answers for you, sir.  I’m sorry.  But I know someone who might.  Wait a minute; I’ll send him in.”

            A moment later, a tall, bald-headed, but youngish black man wearing a police uniform strolled into the room and shut the door behind him.  He stood at the foot of Dean’s bed and stared at him for a long moment before he inclined his head just slightly and said “Dean.  I’m Officer Henriksen.  It’s about time we meet.”  He eyed the equipment next to Dean’s bed that still beeped frantically and added “It’s good to see you awake, finally.  What seems to be the problem?”

            Dean took a deep breath and assessed the man in front of him, trying to match this person to the voice on the phone who had begged Dean to let him help him.  “I need to know what happened.  What happened to Cas?  Where is he?  How did I get here?  How am I even alive?”  Dean huffed out a breath, and he finally realized that it wasn’t just the panic that was making it hard to breathe.  The pain of his injury and the medication he was undoubtedly on were working against him as well.  “I need to know he’s okay.”

            Henriksen stared at Dean for another moment before he dragged a chair close to the bed and sat down, eyes still fixed on Dean’s.  He folded his hands in his lap.  “By the time we reached you, you _were_ technically dead.  You heart had stopped beating, and you’d lost a lot of blood.  The paramedics administered CPR for…god…it was just minutes, but it seemed longer than that, to try to bring you back.  In the end, they had to use the defibulator to get your heart beating again.”  Henriksen ran a weary hand over his face.  “You’re a stubborn son of a bitch, Dean Winchester.”  He shook his head.  “We almost lost you again in the ambulance on the way here, but those paramedics were pretty stubborn too, and they kept you hanging on.”

             Dean closed his eyes for a moment, disbelieving.  He’d taken that reaper’s hand.  He’d agreed to go with her, if it would save Cas.  And those paramedics…they’d _yanked him back._   When Dean blinked his eyes open again, he was a moment away from losing it.  He gulped in a breath and managed to grit through his teeth: “I don’t care.  What about Cas?  I need to know that he’s okay.”

              Henriksen continued to stare at Dean, clearly assessing his sincerity.  He looked away, perhaps unsure of how to respond, before he huffed out a breath and shook his head. He glanced back at Dean. “Castiel Novak is currently on life support in the next room.”  Henriksen’s eyes darkened.  “He’s alive, but he’s in a coma and has been ever since we found you both two days ago.  The doctors say they don’t know what’s going to happen with him.”

              Dean gulped and his heart knocked against his ribcage.  Cas was alive.  Dean closed his eyes and thanked any god that might be listening.  But… a coma?  Dean licked his lips and turned his tired, worried eyes to Henriksen.  “Can I see him?”

              Henriksen frowned and crossed his arms, sitting back in his seat.  He jerked his chin toward Dean’s handcuffs.  “I suppose I should remind you that you’re currently under arrest.  If you weren’t in the hospital, you’d be sitting in a cell right now.”  He leaned forward, eyes hard, but voice calm as he added “And I don’t think I need to point out that you are the one who put Castiel in this condition in the first place.”

              Dean squeezed his eyes shut and huffed out a frustrated breath.  “I know.” He growled.  “Look, you can haul me straight to jail right after if you want, but please, man… let me see Cas.  I need to see him.  I need to know he’s alive.”  Dean gulped.  “Please.”

               Henriksen continued to stare at Dean, his eyes unfathomable.  Slowly, he shook his head as he stood, reaching for the keys to the cuffs.  “I don’t understand you, Winchester.  But I’ll humor you.  Just this once.”

           

 

 

            Henriksen was a man of his word and a few minutes later, he escorted Dean to Cas’s room next door.  When they entered the room, Dean’s eyes immediately traveled to the single, narrow bed, where Cas’s pale, bruised body lay.  He looked _so small_ lying there, with tubes hooked into his arms, and going into his nose and mouth, with machines beeping all around him.  A silent, somber, dark-haired man that Dean recognized as the preacher, and Cas’s father, sat on the other side of Cas’s bed, but he stood when Dean entered the room.  He bristled and shot an angry, confused look at Henriksen. For his part, Henriksen simply shook his head, but offered no explanation.  Dean glanced at Cas’s father just for a moment before he focused his attention back on Cas.

            It hurt like a bitch for Dean to walk, but he managed to shuffle over to Cas’s bed with serious effort.  When Dean reached the other boy, Cas’s father took a step forward, hands balled, and he growled “Don’t you dare touch him.”

            Dean raised tired, desperate eyes to the man  and murmured “I’m not gonna hurt him.”  The man had no reason to believe Dean, and in fact had every reason to distrust him.  Even so, the preacher watched Dean’s every move, tense and vigilant, but he did not reach to stop Dean.

            Dean took the lack of action as the closest sign to permission he was going to get.  He took the last step to the bed and reached out, ever-so-gently brushing his fingers over Cas’s hand before twining their fingers together.  He raised Cas’s hand to his chest and squeezed it gently in his own.  He pressed it against the steady beat of his own heart.  Cas’s face was bruised and covered in scrapes and cuts, and his bottom lip was swollen.  Dean gulped.  His voice was quiet and shaky when he whispered “Hey Cas… I don’t know if you can hear me or not, but you gotta pull through this, buddy.  You hear me?  I need you to be alive.  I need you to wake up.”  Dean stood there for a moment, just watching the steady rise and fall of Cas’s thin chest—grateful that the other boy was alive, but knowing that it wouldn’t be enough until Cas opened his eyes and proved that he was okay.  Dean raised Cas’s hand and kissed his bruised knuckles softly before he replaced his hand on the clean white sheets and took a step back.  He met Cas’s father’s shocked eyes over Cas’s prone body and asked “Will you let me know when he wakes up?  Please?”

            The man offered a short nod.  Only then did Dean allow Henriksen to lead him back to his own room.


	12. Redemption

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to all of the wonderful readers who have stuck with this story. This is it: the last chapter. I hope you enjoy, and please let me know what you think! :)

            Castiel woke up two days later.  His whole body ached, and he was incredibly tired, but miraculously he hadn’t suffered any brain damage.  Also, he remembered everything. Michael Novak kept his word and notified Dean when Castiel woke up, but Dean wasn’t allowed to see him again.  After the doctors deemed Castiel stable enough to be taken off of the various machines he’d been hooked up to, he gave his statement to Officer Victor Henriksen.  Castiel related the whole gritty story, from the night of the convenience store robbery to his supposed death at the hands of Dean Winchester.  Against all odds, Castiel remembered…everything else…too.  He remembered his encounter with the reaper and his ghostly journey through the in-between, he remembered following Dean Winchester and his own family.  He remembered speaking with, connecting with, Dean.  But those were all things that he didn’t dare tell the police.  They’d never believe him.  And anyway, it seemed like something much too personal to share with anyone else.  It didn’t even feel real…more like a strange dream.

            After Castiel gave his statement, the investigation, headed still by Henriksen, moved forward quickly.  Warrants were issued and arrests were made.  Dean, of course, was arrested for the almost-death of Castiel, as well as the robbery he committed.  Gordon Walker had miraculously survived his own gunshot wound, but was also arrested, on several counts of assault and attempted murder, as well as possession of controlled substances.  A warrant was issued for Benny Lafitte, but he ended up turning himself in willingly before the police could find him.  The guilt of assisting with Castiel’s almost-death had apparently been weighing heavily on him, and he’d decided that he needed to make right with himself and God. 

            Thanks to the testimony of Dean Winchester and Castiel’s journal, Victor Henriksen got a warrant for Alastair and Lilith’s home, and what he found—evidence of abuse, as well as a ton of child pornography—was enough to put them away for a very long time.

            The trials were all long, drawn-out processes, of course, filled with sleepless nights, tears, and enough paperwork to drown in. 

            Alastair and Lilith each received 15 years in prison for their crimes.

            Gordon Walker received a sentence of six years for his involvement with Castiel, shooting Dean, and of course, the drugs he’d had in his possession.

            Benny Lafitte also received six years for his robbery of the convenience store as well as helping to conceal the death of Castiel Novak, with the option for parole after three years because he turned himself in willingly.

            Dean Winchester was sentenced to six years in prison for his role in the robbery, as well as the shooting of Gordon Walker and the assault of Castiel Novak.  He may well have gotten much longer, however Henriksen testified that Dean had confessed to his crimes and tried to save Castiel, risking his own life to do it.  The thing that really swung in his favor though, the thing that got him the option of parole after three years, was that Castiel himself testified on Dean’s behalf, and plead for leniency.  Castiel’s defense of Dean had shocked and moved the jury enough that they and the judge had granted his wish.

 

 

            While Castiel was recovering in the hospital, he explained to Michael everything that he’d already read in Castiel’s journal.  He explained that he’d befriended Sam Winchester and attempted to do the same with Dean Winchester, though of course everyone already knew how that had turned out.  He elaborated on his cryptic notes, telling his father of the abuses that he knew Dean and Sam had endured under Alastair and Lilith.  Of course, after the truth came out, Sam Winchester was legally removed from the care of Alastair and Lilith, but that meant that he was once more homeless, and was shunted to a new foster family while Dean spent his days in jail. 

            Sam did not have to endure his new placement for long, however, before he received news that a family had requested him for placement—after long conversations, Castiel and Michael had both agreed that the best thing for everyone, the right thing to do, was to help Sam Winchester.  So Sam went to live with the Novaks.  At first, Sam was very uncomfortable with the arrangement—after all, he and Cas had been friends, but he also knew that his own brother was the reason that Cas had almost died.  Cas only nodded, and said that he understood Sam’s hesitancy, but that his fears were unfounded.  “What happened with Dean is between he and I, Sam.  It has nothing to do with you, and I do not, by any means, hold you responsible for his actions.  You and I were, _are,_ friends, and I told you I’d do whatever I could to help you.  I meant it.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

            Dean sighed and combed another nervous hand through his hair.  His reflection stared back at him from the small mirror in the inmate bathroom.  Dean had never pictured himself in bright orange, before, but now that it was his daily garb, he thought that he sort of looked strangely attractive in it.  A smirk warred with the twist of nerves in his belly, and his lips twitched.

             Dean had already served a few months of his time and so far, bar the fact that he was sitting in a prison, it really wasn’t so bad.  So the food sucked and a lot of the guys he was stuck in the joint with were grade A douchebags, some of whom had blatantly said they’d like a piece of Dean.  Well, Dean was used to dealing with assholes like them in worse situations.  Okay, so maybe Dean had been thrown in solitary at the beginning for fighting with one inmate who had tried to corner Dean in the yard, but Dean had laid that asshole out in front of all of the other skeevy sons of bitches, a move that said in no uncertain terms “I’m nobody’s bitch.  Fucking bring it.”  Dean had nursed his bloody knuckles in the cell, unbothered by his situation.  It had been worth it.  Most of the guys despised the fact that they were behind bars, but Dean took it for what it really was: a new start for him.  He wasn’t about to let someone push him around in here, and he sure as hell wasn’t gonna put up with any of the shit that he’d had to deal with under Alastair and Lilith.  Fuck that. 

             Despite his initial troubles, Dean had learned to accept and even embrace his situation.  Dean had clean clothes, three square meals a day, and a cell mate named Don who didn’t completely blow and was only in for a string of thefts and petty drug charges.  Over all, things could be a hell of a lot worse.  Dean was alive, and the people he cared about were alive and healthy as well.  And shit, that was more than Dean ever thought he’d get.

 

 

 

              He was led into the visiting room by a guard, and watched by others who were stationed around the room for the visitors’ safety.  Immediately, his face lit up when he saw Sammy and Cas already sitting at a table, waiting for him. 

              Dean still didn’t quite understand how the worst mistake of his entire life had turned into something so good.  His little brother was happy and healthy, and looked after by genuinely good people for the first time in his whole life, and the thing is, Cas and his father had had no reason to do it except for the fact that they cared, despite everything.  Blue eyes smiled back at Dean as he entered the room, and Cas raised a hand to give Dean a wave.  Yeah, Dean sure as hell didn’t deserve that, but he was gonna take it, and keep it and hold it close. 

              Dean thought back to all of the times that Cas had followed him around in the halls of the high school, trying to talk to him, trying to help him—not because Cas was a self-righteous little goody two shoes like Dean had always scathingly thought, but because for some strange reason, Cas had actually taken an interest in Dean and he’d actually cared about him.  Dean remembered being so angry at him that he’d just wanted to shut him up and make him hurt.  Still, every time he closed his eyes, he had nightmares about the terrible things he’d done to Cas, to the only person besides Sammy that had probably ever actually cared about what happened to Dean.  He remembered snuffing the light out of Cas’s eyes with his own bloody hands, remembered the hollowness and shock that followed that life-changing act of violence.  Dean remembered grieving for something, someone, he didn’t quite understand, and he remembered being haunted by Cas, very literally.  He remembered that Cas had refused to give up, had refused to slip into the darkness, and how he’d followed Dean, learned Dean, how he’d still, even after everything, believed in Dean enough to ask him for help.  Dean remembered learning Cas’s secrets, learning that Cas had been looking out for him and Sam a lot longer than Dean could even comprehend, learning that Cas had written about him, learning that Cas had…maybe… felt something even more than that for Dean.  Dean remembered learning about the reaper that was after Cas, learning that Cas was still alive, and being determined to try to make it right.  He remembered fighting with Gordon Walker in the woods, and carrying Cas’s broken body back to civilization, even as Dean himself started to slip away.  He remembered speaking with the reaper and consciously deciding to trade places with Cas.  Give his own cursed, miserable life up to bring Cas back.  Dean remembered waking up in the hospital, panicked and confused, desperate to see Cas. Dean remembered the relief he felt the day that Cas woke up, and the awkward, but no less grateful prayer that Dean had stumbled through when Henriksen had told Dean that Cas was expected to make a full recovery.  Now they’d come full circle, and Dean was determined that he’d do things differently this time around.

              Dean smiled as he took a seat on the other side of the table from his visitors.  “Heya Sammy, Cas.”  Touching was against the rules, but still Dean longed to reach out and touch them both, to assure himself that they were real and healthy.  Seeing them was enough, though.  For now. 

              Cas had been bringing Sammy to visiting hours every week since Dean had been incarcerated, with the exception of the time he’d spent in solitary with visiting privileges revoked.  They both came, unbidden, every week like clockwork, and Dean didn’t think he’d ever get over the shock and stark gratitude he felt for both of them.  Dean didn’t understand it, and he probably never would—the things that Cas did.

               Dean could still remember at his trial, where he’d plead guilty to all counts leveled against him, and still, still… a recently-bruised and battered Cas had taken the stand and asked the judge and jury for mercy on Dean’s behalf.  Dean sure as hell didn’t deserve it, and he didn’t understand it, but Cas had done it all the same.  Cas was more than just a good person.  He was a freaking saint, and he was way too good for Dean Winchester.  Dean knew that.  Cas was sort of an angel: a strange, floppy-haired, socially awkward guardian angel who had stuck by Dean, had fought for him, even when Dean had done everything in his power to stop Castiel, to destroy him.  Cas simply hadn’t given up, and Dean owed it to Cas to never give up either.  He’d expected Cas to hate him, to curse him, to wish him ill for all of the hurt that Dean had done him, but he’d bounced back, almost more determined than ever.  Cas had told him, once, before Dean was locked up, that Cas remembered _everything._   Dean remembered that fight: _“I’m the one who fucking did this to you, Cas!  I wanted to hurt you!  Hell, I thought I’d killed you.”_

_Cas had simply nodded, but refused to tear his gaze away from Dean’s.  “Yes, Dean, you did.  I haven’t forgotten that, believe me.”  He’d rubbed a hand over his still-healing cheekbone.  “You hurt me more than anyone else in this world ever has, and you betrayed the trust I had in you… but then you went back for me, Dean.  You went back, and you made a deal with Death to trade places with me.  You tried to make it right.”_

_“But I didn’t, Cas.  Nothing can make it right.”_

_“Maybe not.  But it was a start.”_

 

               With Dean settled at the table, Cas cocked his head and said “Hello, Dean.  How are you doing?”

               Dean shifted in his chair, still uneasy under the regard of Cas’s gaze.  He flicked his eyes between Cas’s intense ones and his brother’s.  “I’m doing alright.  Been working out a bit more.”  He rubbed a hand over his wrist.  “And uh…I have some news.”

               Sam perked up.  “What sort of news?”

               Dean smiled at his brother before shifting his eyes back to Cas’s.  “I uh…signed up for some online classes.”  Dean swallowed a gulp of air and bit back his nervousness.  “I found out that I could not only finish high school from here, but that I could start taking college courses online too.  You know… get an education.”

               “Heck yeah!”  Sam cheered, and Cas smiled at him beatifically, adding “That’s wonderful, Dean.”

                Dean shrugged, replying “Well, figured I might as well, right?  Got a lot of free time on my hands suddenly.”

                Sam squared his shoulders.  “I’m proud of you, Dean.”

                Dean shifted uncomfortably.  “Yeah, well, don’t get ahead of yourself.  I’m still just a lowlife convict, but uh…”  He glanced at Cas and wanted to turn away, but ended up holding his gaze, “I want to do better, be better than that.”  And he did want that.  For himself.  And for his little brother.  And for Cas, because he owed Cas, would owe him for the rest of his life, and would still never be able to settle their debt.  Because Cas believed in him, still, despite everything, and he wanted to prove himself worth Cas’s strange, baffling faith.  Because Cas deserved that.

                “You know I’ll support you, Dean.”  Sam grinned.

                “Thanks, Sammy,” Dean said gruffly, “means a lot.”

                “When do you start?”  Cas asked.

                “Uh…sometime this week.”

                “You’ll have to tell us about it when we stop by next week, then.”  Cas suggested.

                And man, that sentence meant the world to Dean.  It was a promise.  Cas and Sam would be back.  They wanted to see him, and be there for him, and for some unknown reason, they both still believed in him.  Dean was a convict, behind bars for the foreseeable future, and for the first time in his life, he was content.  The world was alright.  Because no matter how worthless Dean still felt, seeing Cas sitting there on the other side of the table, alive and well, and smiling knowingly back at Dean, well, that made everything else worth it.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are love! :)


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